by Lucy Weston
The High Street climbs following the contours of the hill that rises above the river. Near the top, the bear-and bull-baiting rings lie shrouded in darkness. I hear the sleepy snuffling of the animals kept penned below them and smell the copper stink of old blood on the air.
The manor lies behind stone walls so high that only the chimneys can be seen from the road. A tall iron gate bars entrance to a wide drive lined by ancient oaks. Mullioned windows are aglow with light. Whoever dwells within keeps late hours.
I expect that the gate will be secured and that I will have to contrive some way to get through it, but when I press my hand tentatively against one side of the iron scrollwork, hinges creak. The gate swings open just wide enough to admit me.
For a moment, I hesitate but the matter is of too great import to let any personal consideration, including concern for my own safety, dictate my actions. Having come so far, I must go the whole way.
“Follow the course of the walls,” I instruct the others, “and discover whatever you can about this place, but on penalty of my greatest displeasure, do not attempt to venture within. I will meet you all back here.”
“How long do you think you will be, Majesty?” Cecil is pale with fear, but whether for himself or me, I cannot say.
“I have no way of knowing, but if I have not emerged by daylight, return to Whitehall. Do all you can to cast obscurity over my absence and deflect all rumor. I will rejoin you as swiftly as I can.”
Unspoken among us is the realization that I may not return at all, in which case it will fall to Cecil to deal as best he can with the chaos that will follow. I regret afflicting my Spirit with such a fraught task, but I can think of no man better able to carry it out should the need arise.
As though he knows the content of my mind, Dee says, “Have no fear, Majesty. The stars show clearly that your path continues on far beyond this night.”
I believe him, of course, but I also believe that nothing in what the stars reveal to us is inevitable. The destinies they blaze across the heavens come to pass through the agency of our own will. I can only pray that mine proves equal to the challenge I am about to face as I slip through the iron gate and enter the ancient grounds of Southwark Manor.
Night, 20 January 1559
Moonlight slips through skeletal branches that arch above the drive leading to a large stone house with three wings, all built in the style popular during my father’s reign and still much in fashion. The exterior walls sweep up three stories to a gabled roof. Above the center wing, a tower rises dark against the night sky. At the very top, behind round oriel windows, I can just make out the flicker of lamps.
Clutching my cloak tightly, I proceed with as much confidence as I can muster. My steps crunch over the hard-packed snow that covers the drive, unmarred by a single footstep. An icy fog drifts in tendrils across the ground. With hindsight, my plan of going on alone appears less than well conceived. However much I do not want to be distracted by concern for Cecil, Dee, or Walsingham, I would welcome their company as I pass through shadows into silvered light, all my senses painfully alive. For that matter, I would even welcome Robin’s pretended deference as he busies himself attempting to order my life.
But I am alone, with only my mother’s and Morgaine’s courage to guide me. When an owl hoots nearby, I startle and for a moment forget to breathe. My heart hammers against my ribs. I should be cold for the night bears the sting of the north in a thousand pinpricks that assail the skin, but I am heedless of any such discomfort. Indeed, my blood runs hot as I begin to feel the power growing nearer with each step I take.
A wide stone terrace leads to double doors of oak bound by iron. I pause, listening intently. I can make out voices, laughter, and music. Someone is playing the virginal and doing it quite well. Others are singing, their voices melding in perfect harmony.
I would be hard-pressed to say what I expected to find, but this is not it. I stand in darkness, all but pressing my nose against a window, and peer into a world of light and warmth. A fire roars in a vast hearth on the far side of the large room. Golden candelabra hanging from the ceiling glow with the light of a hundred pure white tapers. The music is clearer now; it sounds like a chorus of angels, but that is far from the greatest surprise. The beings—what else can I call them?—at home within that sumptuous chamber are the most beautiful I have ever seen. Dressed more exquisitely than the most elegant of my courtiers, they appear uniformly young and physically perfect. Male and female alike, they are quite simply stunning. Their jewels and cloth of gold, the deeply rich velvets and finely sheened silks that adorn them, are all eclipsed by their own insurmountable beauty.
I am still contemplating how this can possibly be—for surely God would not gift creatures of the dark with such unearthly loveliness without some purpose—when a faint sound alerts me that I am no longer alone. I turn swiftly, intent on defending myself, only to freeze when I behold Mordred, lounging against the wall that runs around the terrace. He wears black—velvet, I think, and a fine wool—with a splash of silk shot through with thread of silver at his throat. Despite the cold, he is without a cloak, but then I suppose he has no need, the chill becomes him so.
He looks at me with amusement and pleasure and something more I do not care to recognize, for it appears perilously close to the hunger I know too well myself.
“Elizabeth, what an unexpected delight. But there is no reason for you to be hovering out here alone. Come inside and join the festivities.”
Alone. Does he use that word deliberately to underscore my vulnerability. Or because he senses the burden of solitude I have known since becoming Queen? He is, after all, a king in his own right. How has he managed in so long a time not to be crushed by the weight of rulership? For a moment, I am tempted to ask him. Only refusal to acknowledge any common ground between us stops me.
He extends his hand in invitation. “Allow me to introduce you to the others. I think you will find them … interesting.”
At that instant, I want nothing in the world more. To be a part of such youth and beauty, such gaiety and careless ease … the thought is irresistible. But I stand with my feet firmly planted on the snowy ground and I will not allow myself to forget the purpose for which I have come.
“By all means. If I am to weigh what you offer, I must learn all I can of you and your kind.”
He stares at me and I am suddenly afraid that he sees beyond the mask of queenship to the woman within. If his vision is as penetrating as it appears, he must surely know that I remain sorely tempted to accept his proposal even as I am determined not to do so. The battle raging within me seems almost to eclipse that which I must win against him. Yet he gives no sign that he is aware of either my weakness or my treachery.
Instead, he merely says, “You surprise me.”
I allow myself a small exhalation of relief. If he truly is taken unawares, so much the better. Perhaps my mad plan can succeed after all.
I reach out, taking the hand he offers. His touch is warm, almost comforting, and entirely pleasant. I sense neither evil nor danger. Indeed, I feel as safe as I did when I soared in his arms on the night we first met. But beneath the void where fear should be lurks a faint awareness that I see him as I do because he wills it, and that, should his desires change, so shall my experience of him. This genial manner is only one more mask among the uncountable others that he, I, and all of us wear.
“Come then,” he says, his smile deepening. He tucks my hand into the crook of his arm and covers it with his, moving close. I feel my body drawn to his for safety. Together, we walk through the wide doors that have suddenly swung open as though at his silent command.
An odd figure waits just within, wearing what looks like a monk’s hooded robe that completely conceals its form, including its face. It stands, hands tucked into its sleeves, head bent in obeisance. Mordred ignores it and continues on, drawing me ever closer to him.
We pass through the antechamber hung with ancient banners and shields
that appear to have survived many battles. Beyond lies the great hall I have seen through the window. But before we go there, Mordred draws me aside.
“What do you know of this place?” he asks.
I let his arm drop and move a little way off, trying to take in as much of my surroundings as possible. Everything I see—paintings, furnishings, wall hangings, carpets—bespeaks both wealth and taste. Much of it strikes me as far older than the building in which we stand.
“I know that you bought Southwark Manor from the Archbishop of York, who I have to assume had no idea whom he was selling to. I know also that the manor has existed for far longer than is commonly recognized. Did you live here as a boy?”
He shows no surprise at my knowledge but answers forth-rightly, “I was born on this land. My mother was of an old Anglo-Roman family who had held the estate for centuries. It was a good alliance for Arthur, good enough for him to overlook that she was pagan. They were wed according to the old rites. Later, when he found it convenient to do so, that allowed him to deny my legitimacy.”
“I am sorry.” The words are out before I can stop them, but I should not be surprised by my own candor. I, above all, understand what it is like to be rejected by a parent.
“When his union with the Christian Guinevere proved barren,” Mordred says, “Arthur found it necessary to acknowledge me as his son. Had he any better alternative, I am certain that he would have taken it.”
As my father would have if he had been able to contrive any other way to secure the Tudor succession beyond my brother, Edward, who reigned so briefly, and my sister. I was his last, most desperate gamble for the continuance of his line. Did he ever consider that by his own actions he had assured that I would choose barrenness over subjugation to any husband?
“It seems neither of us was what our fathers wanted.”
Quietly, so that I have to strain a little to hear him, Mordred says, “At least your mother loved you.”
I freeze momentarily. “Do you truly wish to discuss her?”
“Why not? I am sure that by now you have questions.”
Does he know then of Anne’s letter? Could he possibly be aware that I have found Morgaine? Whatever prompts his willingness to bring up so delicate a matter, I decide to take full advantage of it. To begin with, I will test his truthfulness.
“How would you characterize your dealings with Anne?”
“Plainly and simply, I tried to keep her alive. To my great sorrow, despite her undeniable intelligence and courage, she could not see beyond the superstitions of her faith. She chose death and in so doing almost condemned you to the same.”
That is a slur I cannot leave unanswered. “She left me well protected.”
He lifts a brow. “Who told you that? Your so-called magus, Dee, or perhaps it was the one you call your Spirit, both pretending knowledge of matters far beyond their ken?”
“Yet here I am.” My continued existence on this earth is all the proof I need that the mother who I now know truly loved me did everything she could to keep me alive.
“You are here,” Mordred says, “because each time your life has been in peril, I have taken steps to preserve it.”
So audacious is this claim that I cannot help but gasp. “Surely, you do not expect me to believe you?”
“Believe what you will, but know this: After your mother’s death, certain high lords sought to convince your father that your continued existence was a threat to the children he was certain to have with his new queen. They hoped to gain his approval to end your life quietly. He did not give it, not right then, but neither did he reprimand them for suggesting so vile an act. I did away with them before they could persuade him.”
“What lords?” I demand even as my stomach tightens. Kat has never spoken to me of such matters, but I knew in the way that children do that some terrible fear weighed down on her when I was very young.
Mordred names them—great lords all, all long dead. All men that I know were my mother’s implacable enemies and apparently mine.
“I still do not believe you.” I cannot bear to. It is hard enough to accept that my father killed my mother, but that he would also have sanctioned the death of his own helpless child …
“The threat to you did not end with him. Three times during your sister Mary’s reign, emissaries were sent from Spain and the Pope to convince her to execute you. They were all highly persuasive men who understood her mind very well. Any one of them could have succeeded, but none ever reached these shores alive.”
Again, I know that Mary was tempted to do away with me but I have assumed that it was sisterly love that stayed her hand. Am I to believe now that I live only because those who would have persuaded her to kill me never reached her side?
“Why would you go to such lengths on my behalf when I am a danger to you and all your kind?”
Mordred shrugs. “I saw the strength in you from tenderest childhood. I sensed the woman you could become. Admittedly, I had no idea at the time that another with Morgaine’s power would ever walk this earth again, much less that it would be you. However, had I known, be assured that I would not have acted differently. On the contrary, the forces that have awakened in you make it all the clearer that you and I are meant to be allies and more.”
I choose my words with care, determined as I am to lull him into a false sense of confidence.
“Surely some would say that we are destined to be enemies?”
“They would be fools to do so. The power you possess makes you a formidable slayer, that is true, but it also can make you the greatest of us all. Greater even than me.”
He is lying, he must be, trying to seduce me with visions of my own invincibility. I cannot succumb to them for all that they present a formidable temptation. I must remember who I am and why I am there.
In battle, the greatest advantage is to be gained from surprise.
“Has it occurred to you that I have an entirely personal reason for wanting to kill you, one that has nothing to do with the protection of this realm?”
He starts slightly and stares at me. “I cannot conceive of what that would be.”
A shiver ripples through me. I can feel his closeness almost as though we were actually touching. A current of energy flows between us, heating the air through which it passes and threatening at any moment to burst into flame.
How is it possible for a creature of his kind to look so entirely, so genuinely beautiful and innocent? I must struggle to remember what he truly is and what harm he has done.
“You tempted my mother into trusting you in order to make her all the more vulnerable and force her to accede to your demands to save her own life. How disappointed you must have been when she chose death rather than promise me to you.”
He tilts his head slightly and looks at me. I fancy that I can see the reflected glow of candles burning behind the dark shadows of his eyes. “Is that really what you think? That I conspired at her death? Believe me, there was no need for me to do so. Your father was determined that she should die. Nothing on earth could have saved her, short of his own demise.”
“He had no reason to want her dead. A divorce would have sufficed.”
Mordred’s sigh hovers between frustration and regret. “You truly don’t understand, do you? Your mother led your father a pretty chase for eight long years, denying him her bed when almost any other woman would have welcomed him gladly. Indeed, more than a few did, including her own sister. But he would have none other than her in his heart. She was his holy grail, the chalice that would produce the longed-for son who would carry the Tudor name into the future. For her, he remade the world, and what did he get in return?”
My throat is tight, I can scarcely speak. “Me.”
“Precisely. God denied your father what he wanted most and used your mother to do it. In Henry’s mind, the fault had to lie with Anne. The only other possible explanation was that Henry himself had incurred the Almighty’s disfavor.”
“Even if
he believed it was her fault, he did not have to kill her. He could have spared her, let her live in honorable retirement as he had Anne of Cleves. He could have allowed us to be together.”
“For pity’s sake, Elizabeth, your mother’s death was the blood sacrifice your father made to regain his god’s favor. When your brother, Edward, was born a year later, Henry took it as a sign that the Almighty was pleased with what he had done. He basked in the glow of that pleasure the rest of his life.”
Too vividly, I see my mother mount the scaffold, lay her head on the block, see the swordsman draw his blade, see it cleave the air, and then the blood … so much blood flowing into the earth. Blood of my blood, life of my life, my beginning and, unless I am fortunate indeed, my end. The image makes me tremble.
“What you are suggesting is a perversion of our faith, a rejection of the God who loves and forgives us our sins. It is monstrous.”
“Men become monsters when the fear of their own mortality overtakes everything else. Only those of us who are free of the shadow of death can cultivate all that is good and pure in ourselves.”
How easily he casts himself in the light of the angels! I could say that men also become monsters when they put their own needs above those of all others. But that would not serve my purpose.
“You tried to convince my mother of that?”
He nods. “As I said, her faith prevented her from seeing it. She went to her death in the name of the selfsame god your royal father sought to placate with her blood.”
My heart twists with pain so great that it is all I can do not to weep. I am the anointed representative of that same God, Queen of this realm in accordance with His will. How can I serve that which doubly slew my mother?
How can I not?
The music coming from the great hall grows in power. For a moment, my wounded spirit is in danger of being swept away. Perhaps Mordred senses my susceptibility for he offers me a dazzling smile and once again extends his hand.
“In simple fairness, Elizabeth, at least see for yourself who and what we are.”
