Secret History of Elizabeth Tudor, Vampire Slayer

by Lucy Weston

  But surely the light of Almighty God is a far greater radiance that banishes all fear, all doubt, and all longing. I must cling to that else I lose all courage.

  I have prayed until I can pray no more, asked forgiveness for my sins, beseeched any I have offended in this life to pardon me. All this I have done for the well-being of my soul. But I also have made other preparations. The letter to Elizabeth is written and passed into safe hands. I have consulted with trusted men who possess the arcane knowledge necessary to protect her and who will find those best suited to continue that task until she is of age to protect herself.

  I am comforted that I have done all that I can and now there remains only to die.

  Four steps lead up to the scaffold. I climb them slowly, my hands clasped at my waist. My ladies follow, weeping. Truly, I wish that they would not do so for I fear the sound of their grief will weaken me at this, the moment when I need my greatest strength.

  At the top of the stairs, I pause and gaze out over the sea of those who have come to witness my death. Most are of the nobility. I recognize several, malign men who conspired to turn the King against me for their own ends. They look well satisfied, but standing as I do on the brink of eternity, I know that their time will soon come. One or more of them will fail to satisfy Henry in some way and pay for it with his life. Even those who die in their beds at a great age will die all the same, as must all of us who have a claim to being human. When they do, they will face the same reckoning that I am about to confront.

  This life is but the single beat of a heart carrying us into the life beyond.

  With the assistance of my ladies, I remove my damask overgown. Beneath, I have dressed in bright red. The color of martyrdom proclaims my innocence and my peace with God. At sight of it, more than a few in the crowd gasp. Their countenances flicker with uncertainty.

  Let their doubts take seed and grow. Let them speak of what they have seen this day in whispers, traveling ear to ear, that the Great Whore, as they have dubbed me, went to her death proclaiming that she was without stain and secure in the love of the Almighty.

  I have come to the moment when it is expected that I will speak. I choose my words with the greatest care, knowing as I do that if I dare say anything of the vicious offense against God’s law and man’s that my royal husband is about to commit, I condemn our daughter to his vengeance. But knowing also that what I say will be remembered, chewed over through the years to come, and dissected for every shred of meaning.

  On the very edge between life and death, about to face divine justice, which is the only justice that truly exists or matters in any way, it is well understood that I dare not lie. Accordingly, I say only that I am judged to die according to the law and that I yield myself to the will of the King. No one can dispute that for it is manifestly true. But I say nothing else. I confess to nothing; I admit no guilt.

  In my silence is my absolution.

  The malign men and their kind remain unmoved by my little speech, but here and there among the crowd I see tears begin to fall. Those who so lately condemned me now feel the thorn of doubt pierce their hearts.

  Were I not already moving beyond the cares of this world, I would pity them for soon they will realize that if I am truly innocent, as they will fear, then they are ruled by a monster who killed his wife only because she failed to give him a son. What will the women of this realm make of that? What will the men who truly love their wives and daughters, and hold their lives to be of value, think of it?

  With each word I speak, I am laying the road along which my daughter will walk to the throne as Queen regnant, accepted, loved, and trusted by her people.

  It is time.

  Henry’s notion of mercy is that I shall not be burned and for that I am duly grateful. So, too, am I glad to be spared butchering by an ax that can take several strikes to end a poor victim’s agony. Behind me stands a swordsman from France. I trust him to make a good job of it.

  I sink to my knees and close my eyes, only to open them a moment later when I hear rustling. Here and there among the crowd, a few brave souls, openly weeping, are likewise kneeling. I am grateful for this small show of support but surprised when more follow suit. It is as though a wave rolls through the assembled mass. One by one, they fall to their knees until only a very few remain standing, held erect by their own complicity in my death. All around them the good people of this land honor the moment when my soul will take flight.

  I have won! The truth will be known; my daughter, my beloved Elizabeth, will be safe. She will come into her own and she will save this realm from the one of whom I refuse to think in this my final moment.

  I am ready.

  I throw out my arms to release my soul. My lips shape my last words: Into Your hands. But it is, as I have promised, of my bright-haired child that I think.

  An instant of pressure, nothing more. No pain, no terror. But then—

  What trick is this? I see the crowd but differently, as though I hang above them. See their faces contorted with horror and grief. See the bright sky over all and the brilliant light opening in it to receive me. And just there, on the very edge of my darkening vision, I see the poor crumbled remains of what I was, no longer of any consequence, the river of my life flowing out over the scaffold, falling onto the green grass of a new season just now being born.

  I am free.

  I am, now and forever, Anne.

  Before dawn, 23 January 1559

  I am choking. On my knees, scrabbling in the dirt, I cannot breathe. I taste blood and for a moment fear that it is my mother’s, only to realize that I have pressed my finger to my neck where Mordred bit me and sucked the traces onto my tongue.

  Kat kneels beside me, her arms flung round my shoulders. “Sweetling!”

  Her voice echoes down through the tunnel of time I am hurtled through to return me to my rightful moment. I feel a powerful, vibrating force coming up through the earth against which I press my hands, unlike any force I have ever known but which I recognize at once. It is the heartbeat of the earth itself, our Mother. But it is my mother as well, the sacrifice of Anne that is my strength.

  In the depths of winter, I am surrounded by the scent of roses.

  Kat holds me as I stumble to my feet. Grasping her hand, I turn, seeking frantically until I see it finally … rising in gleaming white above all else.

  “Come with me!”

  Please God that I have her fortitude when I attain her age. Together, we mount the steps leading up through the height of the great White Tower, built by the Conqueror when the Normans first came to this land. It is well-known that the tower stands upon far older remains that were discovered when its foundation was dug. A watchtower has been in this place at the bend of the river for as long as people have dwelled in this land.

  We climb, Kat puffing behind me but never lagging until at last we come out on the walk that runs around the top of the tower. There I pause a moment to get my bearings.

  Ahead of me lies the river and, on its far bank, Southwark. Closer still is London Bridge, crowded as it is with houses and shops with only a narrow passage left for the vital traffic that flows across it. Behind me the city stretches a short distance north before giving way quickly to fields, pasturage, and woodland.

  To the east, beyond the bridge, I see the dockyards where vessels from all over the known world make port. To the west, past the piers where the river whips to a fury when the tide is high, is the City, followed by the residences of my high nobles, and finally Westminster, with its proud Abbey and Whitehall Palace. Somewhere in all of this Mordred waits. Dee may find him in the stars, Walsingham may find him on the ground. But I, Elizabeth, Queen regnant, cannot wait for either of them. I must find my foe this night while my mother’s blood sings in my veins.

  The moon is setting, bringing with its descent thickening darkness. I gaze out over my city, over Morgaine’s home, beyond the place where my mother died, straining for any hint … any clue …

  Tor
ches illuminate the precincts of the tower. Their reflections flicker in the river as it runs down past Whitehall and the great mansions that glow against the night. All the houses along the bridge show lamps burning in at least one or two windows and outside their doors. Along the wharves to the west, I can see lanterns in the ships rocking at anchor and in the taverns and brothels beyond. The warehouses that run alongside the docks are dark, as I would expect at such an hour.

  Where has Mordred gone? Given his powers, he could be anywhere and Robin with him, but I know that he is somewhere nearby for I can feel his presence. After so long, he must know every lane and close in London. He could choose anywhere to conceal himself. No bolt hole then, resorted to upon the moment, but a place that he controls.

  In a great house of obscure ownership? In the crypt of a church? Down an obscure alley? Behind a concealed door? In a tavern such as the one the laudanum users frequent?

  Laudanum that was created on the Continent and is imported from there to our shores.

  My attention returns to the docks. The wind is picking up, the ships rocking a little harder at anchor. Every manner of goods arrives on those vessels—timber and tar from the Baltics, herring and cheese from the Netherlands, wine from France and Italy, olives from all over the Mediterranean, and so much more all subject to the keen scrutiny of my tax collectors.

  And laudanum?

  The making of it requires opium, according to what Walsingham told me, and the poppies that produce it cannot be grown here. It must of necessity be imported.

  Which means that Mordred has some connection to the sprawling dockside. I press against the stone parapet that rings the tower and stare out over the ships and warehouses. Nothing about any of them draws my particular attention … except … perhaps … just there, on the east side of the bridge directly next to the river. Not a large building, small really compared to some of the others, and in no way remarkable. Yet, my heightened senses catch something … a faint rippling in the air, an otherworldly glow from within its walls as though an unseen power is making itself at home.

  It is all slight and could be credited to my desperate need to find something … anything. But the more I stare, the more certain I am.

  Kat grabs hold of my arm as well she should for I have leaned far out over the parapet without even realizing that I did so.

  “Come away, my lady,” she urges.

  The wind is growing stronger still. My hair whips wildly around me. The sliver of the moon dips below the horizon and it is fully night.

  I smile into dear Kat’s white face and murmur a word of reassurance. But I cannot be certain that she hears me for just then the stone parapet falls away and I am rising, lifting on the air, no longer a creature shackled to the earth but free to do as Mordred does. To soar.

  Kat gasps and reaches out to me but I am gone, away from the tower, beyond the walls, out over my city. The hunt is on and I know exactly where to seek my prey.

  Before dawn, 23 January 1559

  Even as I soar into the star-strewn sky, I cannot escape my horror at what I am in danger of becoming. I fear that Mordred’s feeding upon me has unleashed power all too akin to his own. The distance that separates us, too small already because of the temptation he has exerted on me from the beginning, has narrowed to a perilous degree.

  Yet there is a barrier against my surrender of which he knows nothing. Traveling up through the palms of my hands, along my outstretched arms and through my entire body, I can feel the power of the earth that drank my mother’s blood. Anne is with me. The woman who climbed the scaffold rather than yield her humanity strengthens my courage and reconfirms my determination.

  London slips beneath me. I cross over the sleeping bridge and quickly light on the riverbank near the warehouse. This close I am even more certain that an inhuman presence moves within it. The stone walls glow faintly and the very air surrounding them seems to shimmer.

  All too aware that Mordred may be as able to sense me as I sense him, I go cautiously along the side of the building that faces the river. A pack of rats skitters out suddenly almost across my feet. I stifle a scream. They pause and eye me with twitching whiskers and bared yellow teeth before racing on toward the muck along the river.

  When they are gone, I breathe again, but there is no time to indulge my sensibilities. My plan is to free Robin first, then deal with Mordred. To that end, I debate the wisdom of waiting for dawn in the hope that my enemy will be forced to rest. He was ready for me when I came against him at the manor; I have to expect that he will be again whether I attack by day or night.

  Without Walsingham to rely on, I must find my own way into the warehouse. As I expect, the wide, arched doors fronting on the river are securely locked and bolted. With a quick glance around to be sure that none of the watch is nearby, I lift again into the air, settling behind the building in a small courtyard connected through an alley to the river road.

  The windows along the back are shuttered; no hint of light escapes. Not that it matters. I make my way without difficulty, guided by the faint illumination of the stars, all that my heightened senses require.

  The problem of how to enter still confounds me. I am close to wondering if I will have to pry open one of the shutters, the noise of which raises the possibility of discovery, when I notice a small flight of worn steps leading down toward a basement entrance. There, well concealed from all eyes and with my actions muffled by the surrounding walls, I find a sunken door that looks as though it has not been used in a generation and more. The door is locked but it hangs weakly on its hinges.

  Is this a trap? Mordred anticipated that I would come to the manor and was prepared for me there. Has he guessed that I would be able to find him here and planned accordingly?

  There is only one way to find out.

  Slowly, with painstaking care, I ease up the bolts holding the hinges in place. Fortunately, the door is so old as to be eaten away by rot; I have no difficulty opening it the few inches needed for me to slip through.

  The interior smells of dust and nothing more. I catch no whiff of rare spices or perfumes, no hint of timber or leather, no suggestion of exotic foodstuffs. A few crates and barrels are strewn about, but overall the warehouse appears all but empty. Save for a worktable placed almost exactly in the center of the floor, I see only a few benches, some unlit rush lamps, a large set of scales, and a wooden crate, which I discover upon examination contains small crystal vials waiting to be filled.

  Reassured that I am in the right place, I take a careful look around while doing my best to stay in the shadows. The unmistakable resonance of Mordred’s power that has drawn me to the warehouse tells me that he is somewhere nearby. I cannot hope to go undetected for long. I must find Robin with all speed.

  Several small, ironbound doors lead off the main part of the warehouse, most likely to secure rooms used for storage. Quickly, I move from one to the other, peering through the grills. I have reached the fourth door when I am drawn up short by the sound of ragged breathing.

  Grasping the grill in both hands, I boost myself up and stare into the room. There, on the floor, lies a huddled shape.

  “Robin.” I dare no more than a whisper. The man, for I can make out that it is a man, does not stir.

  “Robin!”

  A flicker of movement, just enough to fan the flame of hope. With all my strength, I yank on the door, only to discover that unlike that through which I entered, the cell door is all too strong and unyielding.

  There is only one thing to do.

  “Robin, for pity’s sake, hear me! Get as far away from the door as you can!”

  Slowly, he turns his head to look at me. It is Robin! He is pale and dazed but manages to crawl upright, first to his hands and knees, then hoisting himself to his feet.

  “Elizabeth—My God, is it really you?”

  Joy fills me but I repress it sternly. “Later, my love. There is no time to waste. Get back from the door!”

  He hastens to do
as I bid. When I am certain that he is at the far side of the cell, I call out, “Do not look. Turn your eyes away!”

  I am afraid that the power I am about to unleash could blind him, especially coming as it will in such darkness.

  The bolt I hurl illuminates the entire warehouse in incandescent light. If Mordred has not already sensed my presence, he certainly knows of it now. When the radiance subsides just a little, I can see that the door securing the cell is no more.

  Robin stumbles out through the roiling dust. He looks stunned but alive and whole.

  “Come,” I order. “There is no time to waste.” With my arm around him, I hasten back the way I came.

  To give Robin full credit, he rallies with admirable speed. Having been snatched up by the vampire king, transported across London, and deposited in a dank cell, a man might be forgiven for requiring a little time to recover himself. Not so my dear love, who within minutes is expressing far more concern for my welfare than his own, if in the petulant way that men have when they feel put upon.

  “For God’s sake, Elizabeth, what are you doing here? Don’t think me ungrateful, but tell me that you are not alone? And you didn’t come with only those idiots Dee and Walsingham, did you? There’s a squadron of men-at-arms outside, isn’t there?”

  Remarkably even to my own ears, a ripple of laughter escapes me. I attribute it to nerves and sheer giddy relief that he is safe, at least for the moment.

  “I’m afraid there is only me, but never mind that. Thank Heaven I found you. We must make all haste—”

  A ripple of movement, a sense of deeper, more impenetrable darkness, and I know at once that we are not alone.

  “Run!” I scream, and push Robin toward the low stone steps through which I entered.