by Lucy Weston
I could add, but do not, that I have even more reason now to think of him as my foe. By his doing, my mother came to be suspected of adultery and, worse, of witchcraft. I cannot be certain that he led her into such a thicket of danger deliberately, believing that she would have no choice but to turn to him. Yet neither can I discount that possibility. In the end, it does not matter. He made her vulnerable and for that I can never forgive him.
“He will try to convince you that he is your ally,” Morgaine warns. “Even your best, if not your only, hope. He will tempt you with what no one else can offer—protection for England and yourself, and more. If you give him everything he wants, he will make you immortal.”
“Did he offer all that to you?”
“Oh, yes, and I was very tempted. But in the end, I chose to stand against him, or at least so I believed. Because I did not recognize the weakness within myself, I failed and have kept this lonely vigil ever since, waiting for the one who will not falter as I did.”
“Believe me, I will not.” I make this vow with all my heart. Whatever lay between Mordred and Morgaine, it has nothing to do with me. I will steel myself against him, make fast all my defenses, and from behind the strong walls of my queenly state, I will strike him such a blow as to be certain that he will never rise again.
He will shatter, light on the wind, and be gone forever.
So I am resolved, but as with any great enterprise, practical matters must be considered. I turn to the most important of them first.
“Is there a way to increase my power more quickly and without suffering such ill effects as I have experienced?”
Slowly, never taking her eyes from me, Morgaine nods. When she speaks, I listen with the greatest possible attentiveness.
What did they talk about, there on the hilltop above the ruins of old Londinium? Morgaine and I used to scamper among those tumbled walls, trying to imagine the giants who had built them. Did she tell Elizabeth about that or did they speak of other things?
I have my suspicions, of course, but I cannot claim to know for certain. From my perch on the far side of the altar window outside St. Peter ad Vincula, I could see the two of them but faintly through the veil of time. Frankly, I was astonished that Elizabeth had managed to pierce it so readily, but Morgaine may have helped her. They were two of a kind in some ways, although I had yet to fully realize that.
The insufferable Robert Dudley was lurking toward the back of the chapel where Elizabeth had bade him stay, a good dog heeding his mistress’s command. What could she possibly have seen in him that made her trust him so? A queen of such intelligence and strength should have known better, but truly, who can fathom the mind of a woman, much less her heart? He paced back and forth, looking anxiously toward the grave beside which Elizabeth stood, her lips moving as though she were at prayer.
Except that she was not. On the other side of the veil—Morgaine’s side—she was talking all right, but above all, she was listening.
What did Morgaine tell her?
Whatever it was, it took long enough. Dudley became impatient. After several false starts, he strode halfway down the aisle only to think better of it and retreat back toward the door, where he resumed his incessant pacing. I was almost reconciled to wasting the entire night trying to determine what she was up to when the mist surrounding Elizabeth suddenly vanished and she was back on this side of the veil.
She looked exhilarated, which could not possibly bode well. Worse yet, she had an air of implacable resolution about her that reminded me all too much of Morgaine. Once my beloved conceived of an idea, it was impossible to dissuade her of it.
Dudley, who had been looking more whipped and worried by the moment, snapped to as she approached. She gave him a smile that could only be called incandescent—which he most certainly did not deserve—and strode right past him out into the night. He followed at her heels, yapping about something.
To her credit, she ignored him and made straight for her horse. Or at least she did until he dug his heels in, grasped her arm, and turned her to him.
Bad dog!
In her newly awakened state, Elizabeth’s senses were too keen for me to risk venturing closer. I could contrive for her not to see me, but I suspected she would feel my presence all the same. Hovering as near as I dared, I strained to hear what they were saying.
“What happened?” Dudley demanded. “Why did you come here?”
For a moment, I thought she would reprimand his impertinence. But instead she touched a gloved hand gently to his cheek.
“My poor Robin. Are you feeling illused? I would not have that for the world.”
Staring at her, he shook his head. I swear that I heard its scant contents rattle.
“Of course not, beloved. I care only for your welfare, which is always uppermost in my mind.”
If by uppermost he meant right beside his constant scheming to restore his treacherous family to the wealth and power they had squandered in disloyalty, then I suppose he spoke truly enough. She could not possibly be so deluded as to believe him.
She kissed him. Right there in front of the guards, who affected blindness even as their eyes bulged. She raised herself on her toes, brushed her fingers through his hair, drew him to her, and kissed him long and deeply.
A thousand years, beyond even the measure of Methuselah, and still I could not comprehend what passes for reason in a female. Was she merely amusing herself or was it possible that her feelings for Dudley truly ran that deep? Could she truly be so shallow as to be drawn to a weak-minded, contemptible villein better suited to walk behind an ox plowing fields than dare to lift his eyes to a queen?
So distracted was I in contemplating that mystery that I lost track altogether of whatever it was that she and Morgaine had found to talk about.
Ultimately, I would remember that to my regret, but by then it would be too late.
20 January 1559
I kissed Robin because Morgaine’s tale of what her love for Mordred had cost her reminded me of how glad I should be to have so loyal and willing a man who never, ever would burden me with the slightest fear or loss.
And because I am Queen and may do as I wish … if only occasionally.
And because returning to the world from the netherworld where Morgaine and I met reminded me of the pleasures to be found here, sprinkled though they may be amid the trials and tribulations of life.
But as I take the heat of his mouth, savoring his taste and scent, I remember what Morgaine told me. The only way to gain sufficient power to stand against Mordred is to do what she had realized through the most painful experience—kill not merely any vampire that came my way but the most powerful vampires I could find and defeat.
Until she told me that, it had not occurred to me that one kill would be different from any other, but with hindsight, it makes perfect sense. The only problem that remains is how to find those most worth killing.
Even as dawn comes and I am trapped once again in the pantomime of queenship, I ponder how to accomplish what I must. Kat hovers near, watching me with concern. I know she wants me to tell her what I discovered in my mother’s letter, but I cannot bring myself to do so. She is too good a woman to be burdened with knowledge of the danger that afflicts us.
Robin is another matter. Either he knows me less well than Kat, despite all we have shared, or he is undeterred by what he must surely recognize is my reluctance to talk of what happened in the chapel. All day he remains close, watching me with intentness surely designed to draw the notice of the court as well as my own. Having only just restored him to my favor, I cannot dismiss him nor would I wish to do so. His presence soothes me even as I weigh how much I am willing to reveal my thoughts to him or anyone else. I am only just recognizing that to be queen is to be alone in a sense that ordinary mortals, even those of exalted state, will never know.
Ever since my encounter with Morgaine, a strange energy has filled me. It carries me through the day’s interminable round of appearances
and celebrations, into the inevitable banquet, and on to the only part of the day I can truly say that I enjoy, the dancing.
I am at once elated and on edge, certain as I am that I stand on a precipice from which there is no retreating. I will fall or I will soar. The coming days, or more probably the nights, will determine which it shall be.
In flight from the image of myself lying crumbled and broken on the sharp rocks of failure, I lift a hand to summon Robin to my side. At the same moment I call out, “Play lavolta!”
The court applauds but no one else takes the floor as the music begins. This is my and Robin’s dance, the only chance we have to truly be ourselves before others. Let heads bend together in eager speculation; let foreign ambassadors whose masters would presume to wed and rule me grimace in dismay; let Cecil scowl fiercely. Fie on them and all the world. Robin’s hands are strong at my waist; he lifts me with ease. I float above him and the world on the music and my own laughter.
Looking up at me, he smiles boldly and whispers for my ears alone, “How I adore you, Elizabeth! Truly, you are the sun in my sky and the stars in my heaven.”
When he lowers me, our bodies brush against one another in silent promise of the intimacy to come when all the world is held at bay and only the two of us are adrift on the island that is my bed.
But not this night, for there, sidling up beside Cecil, comes Walsingham, the black-garbed schoolmaster. They exchange a word. Cecil responds with what appears to be a sharp question. Walsingham smiles with the benign patience of a man who knows his worth, or at least the worth of the information he commands.
Robin lifts me again. Over his head, I meet my Spirit’s gaze and see in his eyes that the pleasures of the evening are at an end. I have had my tiny taste of what it is to be a young woman with no thought but for love. It is time once again to be Queen.
We meet in my withdrawing room—Robin, Cecil, Walsingham, and Dee, the magus appearing as though from the ether, though I suspect he has more likely been making use of the library my father assembled from the pillaged manuscripts of the churches he destroyed, which are said to contain many secrets. Whatever Dee has found there still seems to have a grip on him; he appears distant and preoccupied.
I have no interest in his esoteric meanderings. Far more practical concerns beckon.
“What have you learned?” I demand of the schoolmaster, for truly I am in no mood for pleasantries.
Nor, it seems, is he.
“The rumors regarding Southwark Manor appear to have some substance, Majesty. In addition, I believe that the record of ownership there has been obscured deliberately.”
Cecil does not hide his surprise. “You have not been able to discover who owns a manor of significance so close to the seat of government? A former possession of no less than the Archbishop of York? How is that possible?”
Walsingham sketches a small bow suggestive of apology without actually offering any. “Given the”—he pauses delicately—“the recent disorder, it is easier than it has been in centuries to transfer property without due attention to legalities. This is far from the first such case that I have seen, although, I must admit, it appears to be the most elaborate and effective.”
“Surely,” Robin says, “that is indicative of a sinister force at work, is it not?”
Before Walsingham can reply, Dee appears to awaken from whatever has so preoccupied him. He blinks owlishly and strokes the beard that I suspect he cultivates to make him appear wise beyond his years. But then perhaps he truly is so.
“You may be right, my lord. I have been making my own inquiries in my own way. It seems that there is more to Southwark Manor than may appear. The estate is extremely old. Although there are gaps in the record, large gaps as Mister Walsingham has said, I believe the lands were part of an Anglo-Roman property dating back as far as the age of Arthur.”
“What does that matter?” Cecil asks, but I scarcely hear him. I already know the answer. The manor has some significance to Mordred. Perhaps he lived there, on the opposite side of the river from the place that Morgaine called home. As in eternity she sought what was dear and familiar to her, Mordred might seek the same in this world he aspires to rule.
I reach for the cloak thrown over my chair. Instincts I have long since learned to trust urge me to action. Morgaine has shown me how I can prevail, but that knowledge will do me no good unless I am strong enough for the task. Swiftly, before Mordred realizes what I am doing, I must find and kill the most powerful vampire possible. Where better to find my prey than among his court?
“We are going there,” I say.
Cecil looks alarmed. “Now? Is that wise?”
“It is if Her Majesty says that it is,” Robin declares. Clearly, he is determined not to be found guilty of presumption again. However, that does not stop him from having an opinion.
“On the other hand, if Her Majesty prefers, I will go alone and through cunning and subterfuge discover what is afoot there.”
Cecil snorts, but before he can comment, Dee intervenes. “With all respect, Lord Dudley, that would not be wise.”
Anger flashes across Robin’s face. His temper is formidable but the dangers and difficulties that afflicted his life from a tender age have schooled him to mask his feelings from all save me. I, alone, know his heart. Indeed, I possess it.
“Why do you say that, magus?” he asks with false calm.
“Because if the manor is indeed a nesting place for vampires, you will make a tasty snack for them.”
For a moment, I fear that Robin will erupt with rage at so great an offense to his honor. No lord of such prowess in the lists and on the field of battle could tolerate such a slight. So certain am I that he will strike at Dee that I move to insert myself between them.
I needn’t have bothered. With a visible effort of will, Robin keeps control of himself, if only just.
Through gritted teeth, he asks, “Then what do you propose, magus?”
“That we accompany Her Majesty but do not hinder her.”
I would prefer to go alone but I cannot yet contrive how to cross the Thames and make my way through Southwark without assistance. Queen of the realm, slayer of vampires, I have never ventured of my own volition anywhere without retainers and guards. For that matter, not only have I never handled the coin needed to hire a wherryman, I have no idea where to lay my hands on it.
I could ask Walsingham, of course, but I suspect that the schoolmaster would find some way to deny me. He is ambitious, as are they all, and the best route to realized ambition is to stay as close as possible to the source of power.
“Well enough, but once we attain the manor, I will proceed alone.” Robin opens his mouth to object but I forestall him. “It is my intent to draw Mordred into a ruse of my making that will give me the strength I need to defeat him. If you interfere, my plan will fail and we will lose our best chance to drive this scourge from our realm.”
“How do you intend to accomplish this miracle?” Robin demands. His relief at being returned to my favor seems to be wearing off swiftly.
“That is my affair. If you prefer, you may remain here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
My breath catches. As a woman, I am struck by his sudden disparagement. But far more critically, as Queen I cannot possibly tolerate such presumption without risking the disrespect of all those around me. Worse yet, Robin knows this.
I step away from him, drawing myself to my full height, and bestow on him what I hope is a sufficiently regal glare. “Lord Dudley, your injury in the list is affecting you more than I realized. You have my permission to withdraw.”
He takes a step toward me, his gaze commanding mine. A pulse beats in the shadow of his jaw. Deliberately, he challenges me. “I am entirely fit, I assure you.”
I grasp my skirts tightly in both hands, the better that I may not pummel him. His strength and will that I so enjoy in the bedchamber have no place here and now. Is this the price he wishes to exact for the pleas
ure he gives me? Have I been a fool to trust him?
Ice etches my response. “You are mistaken, my lord. In fact, I would say that your condition is worsening by the moment. Withdraw while you still may.”
Cecil, realizing the extent of my anger as Robin apparently is incapable of doing, grasps his arm and attempts to draw him toward the door. Under his breath, he murmurs, “Do as Her Majesty says, Lord Dudley, or it will go the worst for you.”
When a man speaks to him, Robin seems to awaken suddenly to what is happening. He pales and stammers an apology, but I ignore him. If there is to be a reckoning between us, better that it wait. In my present mood, I may do something irreparable.
Cecil urges Robin from the room and, to my satisfaction, shuts the door in his face. I imagine him standing on the other side, wondering—I hope—if this time he has truly cast himself into the outer darkness permanently. In my heart, I know that he is growing impatient to take what he believes to be his rightful place at my side. I can never permit that, but how long can I keep him suspended in a state of unfulfilled hope before I risk losing him altogether?
It is a problem for another time. Just then, I am almost glad to have Mordred to divert me. The vampire who threatens my realm seems less challenging to deal with than does the lover who demands more than I can ever give.
And so we four—Cecil, Walsingham, Dee, and I—cross the Thames bundled tightly against the chill night. I keep my head tucked down not only to avoid the wherryman’s curious glances but also because an icy rain descends on us, bringing more misery than the deepest snow ever can. Mercifully, halfway across it stops, but the cold continues to bite bone deep as we scurry up the bankside.
This time we do not tarry near St. Savior’s but continue directly up the High Street toward Southwark Manor. As before, the area is strangely quiet. Nary a whore nor beggar is in evidence. Several of the inns and taverns we pass have their shutters drawn, although from behind them I catch glimpses of light. As we pass, a door opens and someone peers out, only to quickly retreat back inside.
