Secret History of Elizabeth Tudor, Vampire Slayer

by Lucy Weston

  “Dear Elizabeth, I knew that you would come. The bond we share grows stronger by the hour. And now we share Dudley as well. I have him, you want him. What are we to do?”

  My fists clench at my sides. It is all I can do not to strike at him. The smile I summon in turn threatens to crack my face. “What are your terms?”

  He shrugs, as though the answer should be obvious. “What they have always been.”

  Indeed, why should they change? He has outplayed me. Or so he thinks. Fair Fortuna favor me that I may yet prove him wrong.

  “You went to such trouble to take Robin hostage. And all for what? Because you believe that I mean to refuse you?”

  “You did come to the manor to slay me.” He appears more amused than concerned. His failure to take me seriously gives me hope that my plan, cobbled together in desperation, may yet have some chance of succeeding.

  I wave a hand as though to brush aside his foolish misconception. “I came to negotiate. I merely sought to make you aware of my power first.”

  It is as bold a lie as I have ever told, and for a moment I fear that he is about to call me on it. Quickly I add, “I will not be a submissive consort. Do not ever imagine that.”

  Amusement gives way to surprise. He looks at me narrowly. “What are you saying?”

  I force myself to take a step and then another. The distance between us shrinks. Dressed as I am as a boy, I cannot hope to be alluring, but I do snatch off my silly hat and toss it to the ground. My hair tumbles loose, fiery strands blowing on the wind.

  “Do you think me such a fool that I would refuse eternal life, protection for my kingdom, all that anyone could possibly desire?”

  “And yet you killed Blanche.”

  “Of course I killed her. She wanted to be your queen. She thought it her due.”

  Slowly, never taking his eyes from me, he nods. “But she understood why that could not be.”

  “Did she? That was not my impression. Had I not been so swift in defending myself, she would have struck first and might well have killed me. Then what of all your plans?”

  Sternly I drive the point home. “Blanche betrayed you. She saw me as a rival and she was right to do so.”

  Vanity is a wonderful thing. It can persist despite centuries of opportunity to learn its folly. Indeed, perhaps it flourishes under such circumstances.

  Something for me to think about if my new and hastily constructed plan goes horribly awry.

  “Let us be frank,” I continue. “As you have already said, there is a powerful attraction between us.”

  Mordred tilts his head to one side, observing me. I return his gaze with all the warmth that I can muster. I can claim that it is only thoughts of Robin that enable me to create the semblance of desire, but that would not be true. I think instead of my throne, of power, of my queenship, and of slaying Mordred. I stare into his eyes and smile as I imagine his death. What will he look like when he flies apart into a thousand shards of light bright enough to rival the star-draped sky?

  Whatever bond he believes exists between us, it does not extend to being able to read my thoughts. Thanks be to God for that.

  “Then it is settled,” Mordred says though a question lingers in his tone. “You will be my queen.”

  My course is set; nothing in this world or beyond could persuade me to change it. Yet a treacherous flutter of temptation stirs within me. I repress it ruthlessly even as I remain aware of its presence deep within.

  “It is settled,” I agree, “but I need time to prepare my people. Surely, you will grant me that?”

  “How much time?”

  “A month … scant enough for the purpose, but I think it can be done—”

  “That is absurd. I will give you a day, no more.”

  I scoff at that. “A single day to meet with all my counselors and other high lords and persuade them to accept what I must do? How can you imagine such a thing is to be accomplished?”

  “What need have you to persuade them? You rule here. Announce your intent and be done with it.”

  “It is not that simple!”

  He moves too swiftly for me to avoid him. His hands are hard on my shoulders, his grip implacable. He bends his head, his mouth brushing my neck. “Yes, Elizabeth, it is. You are Queen, act as one.”

  I gasp, overwhelmed with pleasure at his touch, yet desperate to deny it. “You don’t understand. I wish only to smooth your way so that when you become my consort, my people will accept you. Isn’t that what you want?”

  He considers this. Scarcely breathing, I can only wait balanced between hope and dread until at last he nods. “A day, no more.” A sardonic light darts behind his eyes. “One day to convince your people to love me as no doubt you will yourself.”

  “A week.”

  He laughs. “Be done, Elizabeth. You have wrested more concession from me than I meant to give, but my generosity comes with a condition.”

  My mind is racing ahead to what I must do—so swiftly!—once he is gone. Mention of condition trips me up.

  “What do you want?”

  “You must demonstrate that you mean what you say.”

  “How can I do that? I don’t—”

  His hand moves to the curve of my throat, his touch sending a frisson of pleasure through me.

  “Do you understand the process by which you will become my queen?”

  By which I will become a vampire, he means. I have been too squeamish, refusing to really think about it. But I know a little.

  “You create a vampire by feeding on …” Horror fills me. I would shrink from him but his grip is too strong.

  “Several encounters are required, one being not at all sufficient. Yet I would taste you now without further delay. Do this for me and I will grant you a day to make your preparations.”

  Taste me.

  I want to cry out in revulsion, truly I do, and yet his closeness coupled with the sense of his power calling to mine is all so darkly compelling. From the depths of my being, desire such as I have never known rises, growing fiercer with each breath, until it threatens to consume me.

  I tip my head to the side, pull my hair away, and bare my throat to Mordred’s caress.

  I thought up to the very last that Elizabeth meant to back away. When she claimed to have decided to become my queen—and to have killed Blanche only to eliminate a rival—I hesitated to believe her. She was, after all, Henry’s daughter, and if ever there was a master of ruthless duplicity, it was he.

  But when she bared her throat … that lovely slender, white throat, I confess to being all but overwhelmed. I had waited for that moment for so very long, long before Elizabeth’s birth, even before I had any real hope that my dream to assume my rightful place as Britain’s king could be fulfilled.

  In the months after Morgaine perished in battle against me, leaving me sorely wounded, I cursed the cruel fate that condemned me to be a cheerless wanderer in a world of perpetual darkness. With virtually all the vampire clan in Britain slain, I was truly alone. Had I understood the means by which I could contrive my own death, I would gladly have used them. But for all my power, I remained ignorant in the ways of my kind. I had no choice but to endure.

  That is not to say that I did not attempt to end my existence. In those as yet early days, I tried every method I could think of—poison, the knife, fire—everything, all to no avail. Yet the effort was not wasted for by it I began to discover the extent of my powers. I traveled for a time on the Continent—several centuries in all—finding my own kind, learning from them, and growing in strength. At length, I returned to Britain and began creating a new race of vampires to serve as my court. Eternal life breeds great patience, but at length even my forbearance threatened to run out. Anne’s decision to go to the scaffold rather than accept what I offered almost undid me. Only the knowledge that Elizabeth still lived, and could be kept alive by me, preserved my resolve.

  All the while I waited for the moment to arrive when I could at last assume my
rightful place as Britain’s king. At long last, I stood on the very precipice of all I had ever desired.

  That lovely slender, white throat …

  I wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her securely not because I thought she meant to flee, clearly she did not, but in an effort to reassure and perhaps even comfort her. I did not want her to be afraid. Fear has an unpleasant taste. At the first touch of my mouth on her, she flinched, but in the next instant dug her fingers into my arms and held on. I went carefully, sinking into her slowly, giving her time to adjust to me. She tensed and I tasted the swirl of emotions rising in her—shock, dismay, and then, to my great joy, a wave of pleasure that washed out all else and left her clinging to me.

  Elizabeth, so beautiful, so passionate! Everything I had hoped for from the first moment I glimpsed her behind the ice-laced tower window. My exhilaration was boundless. I was so close, so very close, to all I have ever desired. In my eagerness, I sank a little deeper only to be drawn up quickly by her moan. Her eyes were closed, her lids blue-tinged against the paleness of her skin. A rush of tenderness swept over me. With only a small thought for my self-restraint, I withdrew from her and laid her tenderly on a stone bench.

  A single day and she would be mine forever. What glories we would create! The world and all in it would never be the same. We would throw off the shackles of death and lay the foundation for a future as brilliant as the light that glows within my kind.

  No shadow of doubt touched my mind as I spared her a last fond glance before soaring into the night.

  Midnight, 23 January 1559

  Snow melting on my cheeks wakes me. I rouse slowly, uncertain of where I am or what has happened. My memory has a dreamlike quality—the tumbling tower, the flight back to Whitehall, the winter garden.

  Mordred.

  My hand flies to the side of my throat. The instant I touch my skin, an echo of pleasure ripples through me. I gasp in shock and snatch my hand away.

  Sitting bolt upright on the bench, I struggle to recover my senses. Did I really agree to Mordred’s condition and allow him to “taste” me? And have I truly suffered no ill effects?

  On my feet, heedless of the chill, I take the measure of myself. Arms, legs, eyes, mind, so far as I can tell, I am unharmed, yet how am I to know what he has done to me?

  What he has put into me or taken from me?

  What I am becoming?

  A sob breaks from between my clenched lips. At the sound of it, I am hurtled back into reason. I am Elizabeth! I do not stand about in a dead garden moaning over what could not be helped.

  I have a day, and by all that is holy and unholy, I intend to use it.

  Striding into my chamber, I startle poor Cecil and Kat. The highest counselor in my realm and my dear nurse are keeping each other dour company while awaiting my return. Kat, bless her, smiles in relief. Cecil does not.

  “Majesty,” my Spirit begins, “if you would but take a moment to hear my advice …”

  “Walsingham,” I demand. “Where is he?”

  Cecil hesitates, clearly struggling with such cavalier dismissal. For a moment, I regret my harshness but I have no chance to contemplate it. Kat steps past him and nods her head toward the door leading to my antechamber.

  “He’s out there along with that so-called magus. Shall I admit them?”

  “With all speed.”

  They come, stumbling in their haste, clearly much relieved to see me.

  “Majesty—,” Dee begins, but I wave him into silence and address the schoolmaster instead.

  “How quickly can you deploy these eyes and ears of which you spoke?”

  “It is already done, Majesty. I should begin receiving reports by dawn.”

  I nod once, all he will get until he produces something I can act upon. To the magus, I ask, “Have you surveyed the skies? Cast a chart?”

  He tugs hard on his beard. “I have taken the first steps to do both, Majesty. The signs are favorable thus far but require more study. However, I can tell you that I believe Lord Dudley lives still and that there will be opportunity to rescue him.”

  Scant comfort, but some at least. Even so, it is not remotely enough. “Work harder and faster. In a single day, Mordred expects me to announce to my people that he is my chosen consort and their king. If I do not, I have no doubt that he will kill Robin and come after me.”

  I ignore the gasps that follow this declaration and plunge on. “I must know before then where Lord Dudley has been taken. Once he is free, I will deal with Mordred myself. Is that clear?”

  Kat’s fingers are pressed against her lips. Through them, she says, “Sweetling, what are you saying?”

  I take her both her hands in mine and hold them firmly. “The battle is upon us, dear one, or very nearly so. Do not be afraid for right and goodness are on our side. You have always taught me that and I know it to be true.”

  She appears little comforted by my brave words, but for love of me she musters a brave smile and squeezes my fingers. “You’ll set him right, dear one. You’ll give him just what he deserves. I’ve no doubt of it.”

  For a moment, my eyes tear over. I blink furiously to clear them and take a quick breath to steady myself.

  Cecil, Walsingham, and Dee all look appropriately intent and grim. I have no doubt that they will do their utmost to help me, but I suspect their efforts will fall far short of what I need against so formidable an enemy.

  Where else can I turn?

  “My Spirit, I am going to the Tower. Arrange it.”

  Cecil opens his mouth to protest or at the very least to ask what I am about, but catches himself. With a swift nod, he hurries off to arrange an escort.

  I turn to Walsingham. “I will be back before dawn. Have something for me by then.”

  He bows gravely.

  “As for you, magus, consult the stars, cast your charts, but also turn that keen mind of yours to consider where a vampire king would go to conceal a valued hostage and himself as well.”

  Dee’s hand falls away from his beard. He straightens his shoulders and looks at me with clear determination. “I will do my utmost, Majesty.”

  “I hope so, for much may turn upon it. Now all of you save my nurse leave me. I have had enough of boy’s garb and would be myself again.”

  I would leave them with the belief that they are important to me, as they are. But I have no illusions. The fate of my realm rests upon me, and in truth I would not have it otherwise.

  Scarcely has the door closed behind them that Kat presses me most urgently, “Let me go with you.”

  Yanking off the doublet and shirt that are part of my disguise, I shake my head. “I cannot. It is too dangerous.”

  She frowns at me just as she did when I was very young and up to no good. “To visit a grave? Where is the danger in that?”

  I roll down my hose and add them to the pile. Kat drops a chemise over my head but she does not relent. “That is where you are going, is it not?”

  She can be pardoned for assuming that in this dark hour of need, I seek the solace of my mother’s only memorial, scant though it is. And she is not entirely wrong. Even so, I try to dissuade her.

  “There is more to the Tower than benighted St. Peter ad Vincula, so filled with death and pain.”

  “Oh, indeed, there are any number of places where poor souls lived in fear of their fate or suffered even worse.”

  She does not have to tell me that; I was one of those poor souls. As was Robin.

  “Where I am going, you cannot come.”

  She steps back a pace and glares at me. “Is that a fact? And why not, if I may ask? Do you imagine that anything can shock or dismay me? That I will cry out in terror and run away?”

  When I fail to answer, she shakes her head chidingly. “For pity’s sake, Elizabeth, I have been a prisoner there, too. I know what terrors that grim place holds. Let me come with you or toss me on the dust heap once and for all for truly I will believe myself of no more use to anyone.”


  What choice have I when I love her? “We will ride hard,” I warn.

  For a woman of her years, she does not spare herself. We make good time through the silent streets, our guard clattering after us. At the Tower, scarcely has the watchman thrown open the gate than I am in and riding across the green where my mother died. Kat is hard after me.

  We dismount and she takes a moment to look around. Softly she says, “That last night before your coronation, I told myself that I would never come back to this place again.”

  “I am sorry to bring you here.”

  “Nonsense! I would not have it any other way. Where are we going?”

  “We are there.”

  I see her pale for she realizes at once what has brought me. Kat has never said if she was at the Tower the day my mother died, but from her expression I glean that she knows exactly where Anne’s blood was shed.

  As I know, for I can feel it calling to me.

  I do not kneel but fall instead upon the winter grass. It is brown and sere, with only hints of the green that will soon come. I feel the chill dampness through my skirts but scarcely notice it for an entirely different sensation, vastly more powerful, overwhelms me.

  The essence of my mother’s life poured out here in sacrifice. My father’s effort at atonement was in truth the tribute she paid on my behalf, to preserve my soul and win for me the future she knew that I was meant to have.

  “Mother!”

  I am weeping and scarcely realize it. My tears fall upon the killing ground. I am within myself and not. Time and space bend, twisting out of all recognition.

  Winter fades away and it is spring, but of a cruel and mocking sort in this place of death. I can smell the newly planked wood of the scaffold still redolent of the resins of the living trees from which it has been made. Except they are not trees, they are the monster’s bones, a breathing skeleton, and they are about to swallow me whole.

  Looking down, I, Anne Boleyn, Queen of this realm, see the black damask of my skirts sway as I walk. To either side of the gravel path, fresh grass perfumes the air. The guards move ahead and behind me, the blades of their halberds gleaming. Above me, I see the sweep of the blue sky lightly streaked by cloud and feel the blessed warmth of the sun upon my face, warmth so soon to be denied me forever.