Secret History of Elizabeth Tudor, Vampire Slayer

by Lucy Weston

  “My mother had the courage to die rather than yield to him. How can I do less?”

  Kat strokes my hair gently. “What makes you think that you will? Of course he tempts you, how could he not? From what you have said, he offers you eternal youth and more, safety for yourself and this realm. How many do you suppose would have the strength to refuse that?”

  Glancing up, I meet her eyes. “Do you think that I should?”

  I half expect Kat to express shock that I would ask such a question for I know her to be a godly woman. But she is also a woman of keen intelligence who, despite her musings on the strangeness of the world just now, has rarely if ever been surprised by it.

  “You stand to gain a great deal,” she says. “But from what this Morgaine person has said, the price could be very high.”

  “Humanity will be extinguished. That is what she believes.”

  Kat nods. “Of course, she could be wrong.”

  If only she were, but I cannot believe that. “I have seen the laudanum users; they are drained of all spirit and will, mere shells of men. Mordred intends to create more vampires, who, of course, will need to feed in order to sustain their lives. He claims this will be a small price for the benefits he will bring to humanity, but I do not believe him. Far better souls than mine have resisted him. And why would they if what he says is true? His own experience of being human is so far in the past that he likely can scarcely recall it. He has forgotten how fragile and precious humankind really is.”

  “And you cannot convince him to see the matter differently?”

  “After a thousand years spent seeking the same goal, what chance have I to change his mind? I can accede to his demands or I can destroy him. Those are my only choices.”

  “I am glad to hear you say it, but I wasn’t actually thinking of all of humanity. It is your own soul that concerns me.”

  I straighten up, forcing myself to rise and walk a little distance away. Standing before the window, gazing out at the winter night, I struggle to express what lies heaviest in my heart. “My mother’s faith was firm. I am not certain that the same can be said of my own.”

  There, I have admitted it. I rule in the name of the one, true God—who I believe to the depth and breadth of my soul does exist—but about whom I have so many questions that some might well judge me a heretic.

  Kat comes to stand beside me. She puts an arm around my shoulders and hugs me with strength that belies her age.

  “You will find your own source of courage and you will do what is right. Of that, I have no doubt.”

  I turn away, hoping that she does not see my tears but suspecting otherwise. Treacherous yearnings rise up in me. At this moment when I need my greatest strength to resist what Mordred offers, I am dangerously weak.

  “But there are times,” Kat says, “when we all need to be reminded of why life—human life—is worth fighting for.” She looks at me directly. “There is no shame in wanting that.”

  I do not understand her at first. Only when she continues to stare at me as though she can will my poor, sluggish brain to work do I grasp her meaning.

  “Oh …”

  “Go to your Robin, love. Take from him whatever it is you need in order to accomplish what you must.”

  How tempted I am! And not only because of carnal urges. The moment I allow myself to contemplate finally and completely being with Robin, I realize how desperately I need the comfort of human love to protect me from the lure of Mordred’s darkness. Yet still I hesitate.

  “You have always made your disapproval clear—”

  “Because he is a danger to you, my chick, you know that. But right now you face a greater danger. How fortunate for him.”

  The sharp edge of her tongue makes me smile. I hug her tightly. She goes with a tender backward glance over her shoulder and a warning.

  “Be certain that you are back here before dawn. Your ladies rise early. I cannot hold them off very long.”

  I promise her most fervently that I will be just where I am supposed to be before the first faint finger of dawn edges above the horizon.

  The door closes behind her but the warmth of her smile lingers.

  I hurry about the task of removing my clothes, which I almost never do for myself. Finally, I accept that tearing at the silk laces down my back will accomplish nothing and look around frantically for a pair of scissors, finally finding one in a sewing box one of my ladies has left in a corner of the room. Straining with both arms, I snip the laces and breathe a great sigh of relief when they fall away. Moments later, my corset and petticoats follow. I strip off my shift, bathe in water that I scarcely notice is cold, and put my night shift on. Wrapped in my robe, I slip through the door to the passage and hurry toward Robin’s rooms.

  Robin is lying in bed, his arms folded behind his head, when I come through the passage door. He is not asleep. His eyes flick to me but otherwise he does not react. I am left to approach the bed where I stand, gazing down at him.

  “Are you very angry at me, Robin, love?”

  He is silent long enough for me to wonder if he truly means not to answer, and how I will deal with such defiance. Finally he says, “I can never be angry at you, Elizabeth. You are my love.”

  The thought flits through my mind that he knows why I am here. Or at least he senses the possibility on some primal level that spurs his response. I do not care. Robin loves me. I have always known it and am a fool to ever think otherwise. The truth is that I take advantage of his love in a thousand shameless ways.

  “I wonder sometimes how you can love me. We both know that I can be horrid.”

  He laughs and sits up farther in the bed, lifting the covers beside him in silent invitation. “It is true, you can be.”

  I feign of look of shock at his agreement and he laughs again. “But at your worst, you are always Elizabeth and I would not have you catch a chill. Get in.”

  I comply with as much grace as I can muster. Inwardly, I am trembling but I try my best not to let my beloved see that. Not until he takes me in his arms, his hands stroking all along the length of me as he eases my night shift up and over my head do I lean close to him and whisper against his neck.

  “Do you still have those French gloves?”

  At once he stiffens. Propping himself up on an elbow, he stares down at me. “Do you mean… ?”

  I am struck by embarrassment, ridiculous under the circumstances. “Yes, those. If you still have them—”

  “I may … Yes, I do.” He scrambles from the bed. I lean back against the pillows and watch him. Robin has a fear of the dark, but no one knows of it save for myself and his most trusted servants. Candles are always lit in his chambers. By their light, his back and flanks appear sleek and burnished. I give myself up to the simple pleasure of admiring his body as he throws open one chest and then another, searching until he finally raises a hand triumphant.

  “Here they are!”

  He returns to the bed and we spend a few moments examining what he has brought. I am almost overcome by self-consciousness, but my curiosity gets the better of me. Truly, the lengths of sheep intestines folded over and stitched meticulously tight at one end while threaded through with a silk tie at the other appear ingenious.

  “Are you sure that they work?” I ask finally.

  “Absolutely … at least, so I have been told and I see no reason to doubt it. But Elizabeth, tell me truly, are you sure… ?”

  He looks at me with such longing that I would be hard-pressed to deny him even if I had not already made up my mind.

  “Yes, my love. But how do you … ?” I am trying to envision how the contraption is put in place when Robin demonstrates.

  “The male member must be erect before the glove can be donned,” he explains, “but as you can see, that is no impediment.”

  Indeed, Robin always seems to find my presence most arousing. I stare in fascination as he attempts the task and am obscurely pleased when he has difficulty with it. I would not like to
think that he has experience in such matters for then I would have to question with whom.

  After several awkward moments, I offer my assistance, which he accepts most gratefully. When I am done, I sit back on my haunches to observe my handiwork. “Remarkable, truly. However did the French think of them?”

  “I suppose we should be grateful that they did.” Robin’s voice sounds unusually thick. His face is flushed and he appears to be having difficulty breathing. Even so, he asks me, “Elizabeth, are you certain?”

  That is the question, is it not? What I contemplate is irrevocable. Once gone, my virginity cannot be regained. Perhaps I will regret its loss, but with all that lies before me, I am determined to know this most essential part of human life no matter what the risk.

  Truly, it is vital that I do so for even as I consider what I am about to do, my gaze strays to his throat. A need that is other than human rises in me.

  Repressing it, I bend over him, brushing my breasts lightly across his chest. He groans and takes hold of my hips.

  What shall I say of what follows? I assumed, without even knowing that I did so, that the passion we had already shared had prepared me for what was to come, and to some extent that was true. Yet the sheer intimacy of allowing him into my body was unlike anything I could anticipate. Men make such a great deal of that act of penetration that they do not seem to recognize how utterly and completely they are taken by a woman. Perhaps that is for the best.

  But I, riding him vigorously after the briefest flash of discomfort, feel supremely in control. By the rhythm of my body, I control his release and my own. When we both scale the heights of physical joy, I know that my instinct to come to him was right. I give my virginity gladly, a sacrifice for the boon of courage, of which I have vastly greater need.

  Afterward, lying in Robin’s arms, I listen to his heartbeat slowing as my own does the same. Contentment washes over me and with it a kind of peace I cannot recall ever feeling before. I have known pleasure well enough, to be sure, but the change I have allowed to take place within me seems strangely liberating. Queen that I am, anointed in the name of Almighty God, I am also completely and utterly human.

  And determined to remain so.

  “I have a plan to defeat Mordred.”

  Robin takes a breath and hugs me closer. “I was certain that you would. Tell me of it.”

  “I have seen him in his lair. He is … formidable but arrogant. I think that he truly does not believe that he can be bested.”

  “How do you mean to do it?”

  When I tell him, he is silent for several moments. Finally he asks, “How did you come to this?”

  “The Druid priestess Morgaine told me what to do. I went to St. Peter ad Vincula in hope of finding her and I was not disappointed. She was there, as she has been for a thousand years, waiting for the one to come who would relieve her of the burden of defeat that she has carried all that time.”

  He shakes his head slowly, struggling to comprehend. “I do not understand. How could you—”

  “I don’t know and I will not pretend to. But scarcely did I begin to think of her than she was there, across the veil of time. She and Mordred are knit together far back to when they were both children. She knows him better than anyone.”

  “And she has told you how to defeat him?”

  “How I may possibly defeat him, nothing is guaranteed.”

  He turns slightly, easing me onto my side. His eyes are liquid pools of dark passion in which I …

  Truly, I am ridiculous. Romance is all well and good, but I have had my tryst with it and I must now return my mind to business.

  “Did you find what you needed at the manor to accomplish this victory?” he asked.

  I think for a moment and slowly nod. Indeed, I believe that I know precisely what is needed. It only remains to be seen if I am right.

  Morning, 21 January 1559

  True to my word to Kat, I am back in my own bed before dawn, although not before Robin and I make use of two more of the French gloves. If only our Gallic neighbors across the Channel concentrated their attention on what they are so good at, namely pleasure, rather than dabbling in government, we would all be better off.

  The day is, once again, taken up with queenly duties of little import compared to what else I face. Yet amid the usual demands lightly cloaked as requests from various parliamentarians, churchmen, diplomats, bureaucrats, social climbers, and the like, I am free to send my mind ranging over what must be done to save my realm from evil threat. By the time night falls, thankfully so early in the chill of winter, I have settled on how I will proceed.

  To begin, I write a letter:

  Honored Lord Mordred, if I may address you as such, kindly receive my thanks for the hospitality you have so generously shown me. Truly, the fascinating hours I spent in your most gracious home were at once enlightening and thought provoking.

  As I believe you know, since you so eloquently made your proposal to me, I have struggled to understand what is best for my realm and myself. I would be less than honest if I did not admit to you that my efforts to that end continue. I am as yet unresolved in my mind although I wish most sincerely to put an end to the turmoil of my doubts and confusion.

  To assist me in better determining the proper course for me in this matter, I beseech you to send me the Lady Blanche, whom I confess to wishing to know far better than is possible on such scant acquaintance as she and I have already shared.

  The counsel of a woman who has already joined with you may prove invaluable to me. I wish to draw upon her wisdom and experience in this matter.

  With thanks for your understanding and patience, I am—

  Elizabeth Regina

  I read the letter over several times, wondering if it is too much. Mordred possesses undeniable intelligence that I would be a fool to abuse. If I rouse his suspicion by too fulsome prose, I will have cause to sorely regret it. Will he think me serious or will he smell betrayal?

  Yet the more I consider the letter, the more convinced I am that it will lull my adversary into a false sense of confidence. Let him believe that I yearn for the eternal youth and beauty of the Lady Blanche, as though I were a poor, shallow female called to no higher purpose. Let him send her to me, this once mortal daughter of warriors who boasts of her own power.

  I seal the letter with hot wax into which I press my personal signet. By the time I do so, the new day has arrived. Banishing the last of my doubts, I summon a servant.

  “Find Doctor Dee and tell him to wait upon me here.”

  Who better to send with a message for the king of the vampires than the magus who played so key a role in bringing about my confrontation with them?

  The illustrious Doctor Dee did everything but grasp his balls with both hands and bend over moaning in fear while he waited for me to read Elizabeth’s letter. Beads of sweat shone at his temples. His mouth twitched as his eyes darted here, there, and everywhere. I could smell the fear rolling off him like the stench of a fetid swamp.

  He was an interesting fellow, was Dee, at once as frail a human as any who has walked this earth, but at the same time possessed of insatiable curiosity and a need to make sense of the world that bordered on obsession. I could almost have sympathized with him had I not fully appreciated the futility of trying to understand this strange, contradictory place in which we find ourselves, washed up like amnesiac survivors on an alien shore.

  “Tell your mistress that I will grant her wish,” I instructed finally as I rolled the parchment up again and placed it on a nearby table.

  He appeared relieved that he would not have to face Elizabeth’s wrath, yet even so he could not contain his restless mind.

  “If I might ask,” he ventured, “what it is that she wants?” In his anxiousness, he tugged on his beard so hard that he winced.

  His willingness to admit his own ignorance if only to assuage it amused me and won him a measure of tolerance I would not otherwise have extended.

  I
raised a hand and at once Blanche was at my side. With a private smile for her, I replied, “The Queen requests the counsel of a lady who may advise her as to the best course to follow in this matter.”

  Dee’s eyes darted between us, widening yet farther as Blanche’s beauty had its usual effect. Not even a man who aspired to the wisdom of ages was immune from it.

  “This lady?”

  “The selfsame.”

  I took Blanche’s hand, brushing my lips over her fragrant skin as her gaze met mine. “Will you undertake this commission for me? I can trust no one else with it.”

  I was asking her to persuade Elizabeth to agree to my proposal, join with me, and become my queen, thereby denying Blanche what she had so long sought for herself. I took it as a measure of her true devotion and submission to me that, after the briefest hesitation, she nodded.

  A doleful assent to be sure but good enough under the circumstances.

  “I will inform Her Majesty then,” Dee said, looking anxiously toward the door, through which he scampered scant moments later with speed suggesting that all the imps of hell were nipping at his heels. Even so, he could not resist a last glance over his shoulder and what I took to be a sigh of regret that he could not bring himself to tarry longer.

  Having draped herself over the arm of the chair where I once again reclined, my dutiful inamorata blinked back tears—leading me to wonder if she could actually still cry—and pouted.

  “How can you send me to that mindless ninny? It is too cruel.”

  I accepted the wine offered by a thrall but handed it to Blanche in a small service intended to soothe her temper. I took another for myself.

  “You have nothing to fear. She is merely the means to an end.”

  I was lying, of course. Already Elizabeth fascinated me, partly because of her connection to Morgaine but increasingly in her own right as well. Her fiery will and courage, the sensuality glowing behind the façade of virginity, and, most particularly, the raw power she possessed, the equal or greater of my own … all that and more convinced me that I could love her as I had not loved since Morgaine. Indeed, perhaps I was destined to do no less.