by Lucy Weston
“I am no Henry! For pity’s sake, Elizabeth, you know me better than this!”
“I know who you are now and whom I wish you to remain. Be my friend, my lover, my confidant, the one and only man with whom I can truly be myself. But do not ask to be my husband, for that can never be.”
He turns away, and for a moment I fear that he means to ride off, leaving me alone in the vast park where my father sent stag after stag to its death in the months after my mother’s execution, her demise having left him with a thirst for blood that seemed insatiable.
But Robin is better than that, better than me if it comes to it, for I am Henry’s daughter as much as Anne’s. God forbid that the same murderous impulses that dwelled in my father find expression in me. However much I fear a husband, no consort of mine could ever think his head secure beneath his crown.
“What of the succession?” he demands. “Have you thought of that?”
At times I could think of little else, so relentlessly have Cecil and the other members of my council dwelled upon this point. My Spirit has convinced me to name an heir in secret, but I will not speak of that. Instead, I wave a hand airily.
“There are any number of candidates. It will sort itself out in time.”
Robin’s face hardens. I have hurt him and he would be less than human if he did not wish to do the same to me.
“What if there is no time? What if you fall to Mordred?”
I laugh and laugh again when I see his shock. Still, the question deserves a serious answer.
“Sweet Robin, if I fall to Mordred, there will be no doubt whatsoever about the succession. As my grandfather claimed the throne when he slew King Richard III, so will Mordred seize this realm and everything in it before my body can grow cold.”
While yet Robin contemplates this, I command his gaze with mine. “Promise me that if that happens, you will not hesitate but will leave this land with all speed and never return.”
His lip curls in disgust. “You think me such a coward?”
“No! I think that I will take my last breath with far less fear and pain if I believe that you, my love, will be safe.”
I touch my spurs to the mare but she needs no urging. As much as I, she is ready to be done with this place. Her hooves throw up clods of dirt as we race back the way we came. If I could, I would fly on and on to the ends of the world and beyond, but that is not to be.
I have passed down the length of my life across chasms that threatened one after another to entomb me—the child of tragedy, the target of conspiracy, the queen called bastard and witch borne—all to come to this moment.
The ribbon has run out and time is gone with it.
From the winter park, sere beneath frost, I ride certain of my purpose and accepting of whatever my fate may be.
I am the Slayer and I have come to kill.
Afternoon, 22 January 1559
“Enough!” We are in my council chamber—Cecil, Walsingham, Dee, Robin, and myself. We have been there for an hour and more after my return to the palace. I am still in my riding habit, my skirts swirling as I pace back and forth.
“No more advice,” I declare, for I have had a bellyful of it.
Cecil, first and foremost, wants us to proceed with caution, as though that were remotely possible. Dee supports him. Neither of them seem to understand that Mordred will not wait. He will know what has happened to Blanche and will realize that I am a greater danger to him than ever. If I do not strike first, he is certain to do so.
But when I point that out—again—all I get in return is more hemming and hawing, more scholarly pontificating, more talk of the alignment of the stars, the political realities, and all the rest of that nonsense that makes me want to tear my hair out by the roots and use it to strangle them.
“You heard Her Majesty.” Robin finally bestirs himself. He has largely been silent since our return to the palace. While he is there in the council chamber, seemingly supporting me, I sense that he harbors his own doubts. “I remind you that we are all sworn to do Her Majesty’s bidding.”
Which makes it clear enough that but for his oath on the matter, he would take a very different view.
Only Walsingham looks at me foursquare and does not hesitate . “Indeed, we have heard the Queen. She makes good sense. Mordred will never be more vulnerable than he is right now.”
“At last!” I exclaim. “Someone who has his head elsewhere than up his posterior.” I like to think that such vulgarity is not usual for me, but I have passed the point of maintaining any decorum.
My enthusiasm does not last long before Walsingham dents it. “Even so, Majesty, you are wrong to think that you must settle this matter alone.”
Cecil sucks in his breath, for not even he dares to speak to me so bluntly. Worse yet, Walsingham is his man, introduced into my service by him. Any displeasure the schoolmaster earns for himself will also accrue to my Spirit.
“I would not go that far,” Cecil says quickly. “Clearly, Her Majesty is better able than any of us to deal with the inhuman foe who afflicts this realm.”
“Indeed, she is.” Walsingham stands, a sober figure all in black, seemingly at his ease. If he harbors any fear of my displeasure, he conceals it masterfully. “However, upon her pleasure, others of us can provide assistance.”
“How?” I demand, for my patience runs thin. I count the hours until darkness and wonder how I will endure so long.
“I have continued my inquiries into the vampires’ activities hereabouts,” Walsingham informs me. “In the course of which, I have gleaned more about them.”
“Their nature is already well-known,” Dee protests. “Those of us who have made a lifelong study of them—”
“—and protected Her Majesty against them during her tender years—” Cecil adds.
“—have withheld nothing from her,” Dee concludes.
“Of course you have not,” Walsingham agrees. “Nothing that you know, at any rate. But there is always more to be learned. That is as great a truth in life as any ever found.”
“Enough, schoolmaster,” Robin says. “Tell us what you have discovered that we may stand in awe of your cleverness.”
A look of honest confusion crosses Walsingham’s face. “I only wish to assure that Her Majesty is in possession of all useful information before she acts.”
“Of course you do,” I say quickly, anything to urge him on. “What have you found?”
“By day, Southwark Manor appears deserted, except for those you call thralls, and they are in a greatly subdued state, almost quiescent as it were, neither moving nor taking note of anything that goes on around them.”
“How could you possibly know this?”
“I returned there yesterday.”
“You what?” The schoolmaster had gone alone into a den of vampires to ferret out such information as might prove useful to me? I can but stand in awe of his daring even as I wonder at its source. Is he so devoted to my cause as to have no care at all for his own life? Or is his devotion to something beyond myself, perhaps the England he believes I can protect and nurture? The former flatters my vanity, but the latter places him in the ranks of those whose counsel I must be wise enough to take.
“I returned there,” he repeated, as though surprised that his actions should be of any note. “Someone needed to do a more complete surveillance, and I thought myself best suited to the task. I was curious to discover if the legend about vampires sleeping by day had any truth behind it. I think it must for I found no sign of them. However, neither could I find their resting place, though logic suggests that it is within the manor.”
“And undefended, at least by the thralls, from what you observed.” As usual, Robin has leapt to the heart of the matter. I am not far behind for all that I trip along the way.
“I told you not to enter the manor precincts,” I remind Walsingham. If he intends to remain in my service—and I definitely intend to keep him there—he must learn that my instructions are not to be lig
htly disobeyed.
He sketches me a bow. “Your pardon, Majesty. I assumed that particular instruction applied only to the night in question and was not a general prohibition.”
His parsing of my orders to his advantage rings a rueful smile from me. “In future, I will take care to be clearer.”
He bows once more and scarcely has time to straighten before Cecil latches onto what has been learned.
“If this is true,” my Spirit says, “we could enter the manor in full force with a contingent of men-at-arms, determine Mordred’s location, and dispose of him before he can act to stop us.”
“Is that what you propose?” Robin asks. “An armed attack on the manor in broad daylight? That is your best advice?”
Cecil hesitates. In matters of diplomacy and politics he has no equal, but he is astute enough to realize that he has no military experience whatsoever. Indeed, the entire direction of his life and everything he tries to persuade me to do is in service of avoiding war, which he regards as an unnecessary extravagance.
“Well … perhaps not,” he hedges.
“A degree of subterfuge is called for,” I acknowledge. “After all, we don’t want the common folk alarmed any more than they already have been.” Before any of them can respond, I plunge on.
“Cecil, you will remain here as before to keep the rumors to a minimum and generally deflect attention from my absence. The rest of you will come with me. At the manor, we must conduct a quick but thorough search. If Mordred can be located, I will deal with him, but every care must be taken not to alert the other vampires to danger. Should that happen, we will be hard-pressed to escape with our lives.”
My plan is greeted with general acceptance, although Cecil manages to feign disappointment at being left behind again, while Dee struggles to hide his unease at being drafted to go along. Walsingham could appear no different if I had invited him to go for a pleasant stroll, whereas Robin …
Robin gives a wolf’s smile that puts me in mind of the thirst for battle that he has shown in the past when he distinguished himself fighting for my sister, Mary, at Calais and later when he became a champion in the lists. My woman’s heart would have me leave him safe at Cecil’s side. But beyond the insult I would thus inflict on him, as Queen I must steel myself and do whatever is needed for my cause.
Walsingham clears his throat. “An excellent plan, having the virtue of both simplicity and clarity. If I might just add—”
“Yes, what is it?”
“To avoid undue attention, Your Majesty will require a disguise.”
He is right, of course, I should have thought of that myself. It is one thing to travel secretly by night, quite another to do it by day. My appearance is sufficiently well-known to Londoners that I would be spotted before I could cross the river.
“I believe that I can help with that,” Robin says. “Come with me.”
My council chamber is connected to my private quarters by one of the many interior galleries that allow movement through the palace without the need to go through the public areas filled with gawkers and petitioners. Such passageways are by no means secret, but neither is anyone encouraged to loiter in them. The gallery that Robin and I enter is empty, as is my bedchamber. From there, we move quickly to his own, emerging through the hidden door to startle one of his servants, who is putting away Robin’s freshly laundered clothes.
“Out, man!” Robin bellows, and the fellow scampers off.
Throwing open the lid of a chest, Robin begins rummaging through it. His actions remind me suddenly of what passed between us after the successful search for the French gloves. I cannot help but laugh.
“If we are to disport ourselves, we will have to make haste,” I say.
He straightens with an armload of clothes and eyes me narrowly. “Good enough for that, am I, but nothing more?”
In a flash, my good humor evaporates. Of course, I understand that he feels driven to air his disappointment, but the moment hangs so perilously … could he not have waited?
Unless he does truly believe that there may be no future opportunity and would not have me die without knowing of his anger.
“Out with it then! Tell me how illused you are, how vile I am. Call me cruel, unnatural, whatever you will. Heaven for-fend that you think of anyone other than yourself!”
He drops the clothes and comes at me. In an instant, I am tumbled back across his bed and he is on top of me.
“You are cruel!” he exclaims. “I give you my heart and you take delight in shredding it!”
“Your heart? What of mine! I cannot even claim to own it for my people have a prior claim. I have nothing of myself, nothing! And now, with all that has happened, I do not even know who I am!”
It is the truth, plainly spoken, but it is not what he wants to hear. He wants me to tell him that I cherish his heart and that he has mine in turn. Much good that it would do him, for I fear that it is a poor, shriveled thing withered from scant use.
Not so my body, which appears to have a will entirely of its own. We tear at each other, clothes banished, flesh bared, mouths clinging, limbs entwined. He is in me and all around me; I possess him completely and I glory in it. If I die, let me die now as I soar into the heat of the sun and the infinity of the heavens. Fear falls away, the world with all its shackles does not exist. It is a masquerade, nothing more, and we the poor dupes who account it real and suffer so much trial and tribulation in it.
But false or not, inevitably, the world exerts its claim once again. I descend from bliss to rumpled sheets, pounding heart, and the certain knowledge that precious time is passing.
Robin lies beside me, gasping. When I start to rise from the bed, he clasps my arm and pulls me to him. Eye to eye, he says, “Forget my angry words, I pray you. I spoke in thoughtless haste.”
His apology wrings a wistful smile. “But truthfully, all the same. I have disappointed you.”
He laughs faintly. “Believe me, sweetling, right now disappointed is not how I would describe myself.” More seriously he adds, “Think only of what must be done to end the threat to your realm. Once Mordred is sent to his hellish reward, there will be time for everything else.”
I cannot bring myself to tell him that no amount of time will favorably dispose me toward matrimony. I am unalterable in my conviction that to take a husband would be to tempt the cruelest fate.
And so I smile, slip from the bed, and hold out my hand to him. “Help me to dress. I have no notion of how to put on male garb.”
He hastens to oblige me and plays the willing maid until, swiftly, we are both decently clad and on our way. An awkward page boy tugging at “his” hose and not quite able to keep his feathered hat on straight follows Robin back to the council chamber.
Cecil sucks in his breath at sight of me. “Sweet heaven …” Beside him, Dee colors with embarrassment and looks away. Scholar that he is, apparently the sight of a woman’s legs undoes him. He says nothing.
Alone among the three, Walsingham appears unfazed by my disguise. “Well done,” he decrees with a nod to Robin, who apparently gets the credit. “I believe we may now proceed.”
The departure of three men—Cecil remains behind—going briskly from the council chamber would attract attention under any circumstances. In the eager speculation that accompanies their passing, no one takes any notice of the page trailing after them.
For the first time in my life, I am effectively invisible. The experience is disconcerting but not unpleasant. How refreshing not to be the focus of all eyes or the target of all tongues. How delightful not to have every aspect of my appearance and behavior dissected for the tiniest hidden meanings.
How different the world looks when one does not scan every face for signs of treachery or wonder if every shadow conceals an assassin.
The respite is too short. Quickly enough, we are across the river, and from there it is scant time before we reach Southwark Manor.
Late afternoon, 22 January 1559
The high iron gates set within the stone walls that circle the manor grounds open once again at my touch. Before we pass through, I caution my companions.
“We have only a few hours of daylight left. We must find where Mordred sleeps quickly so that I may dispose of him. If we are still within these walls when night falls…”
I do not have to state the terrible danger we will face. They all know well enough that if our presence is detected, the entire court of the vampires will rise up as one to defend their king and themselves. Against such overwhelming odds, not even I with all my newfound power could hope to prevail.
We go swiftly up the path, still glistening with frost, and across the wide stone terrace to the double ironbound doors. Unlike the gates, they are securely fastened.
I turn to Walsingham. “How did you get in when you came here?”
“This way.” He leads us around a corner and through an archway giving onto a broad flagstone courtyard framed by the three wings of the house. At this hour, so large a residence should be bustling with servants, retainers, and the like. Carriages, wagons, and riders should be coming and going. The kitchens should be a hive of activity as dinner is prepared. Nothing of the sort is happening here; there is only stillness eerie enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. Staring up toward the steeply pitched roof, I glimpse stone gargoyles, winged beasts with leering faces and cloven hooves. They crouch as though about to leap down on us.
A small wooden door set near a corner of the building sits so deep in shadow as to be all but invisible. The schoolmaster lifts the iron latch and eases the door open. On the far side is a low passage.
“The hall is this way,” he says. We have gone only a short distance in that direction when we encounter the first of the thralls. He—or she—is standing motionless against the far wall. We can make out nothing but the all-encompassing brown robe that hides every feature.
Robin, who has not seen such a creature before, sucks in his breath. Knowing as I do now how they are created, I wonder who the brave soul was who dared to go against Mordred and has suffered such a dire fate for it.
