by Lucy Weston
I dress and go to meet with Cecil, as promised, my way preceded by the usual shouts of warning by my guard: “The Queen comes! The Queen comes!”
My courtiers, avid for sight of me, scatter to either side that I may pass. The ladies sink into deep curtsies as the men bow low, each managing these elegant maneuvers without ever taking their eyes from me. I acknowledge a favored few but do not slow. Let them make of my haste what they will. Perhaps they will merely think me eager to be about my queenly duties, or more likely, they will concoct a dozen and more rumors of plots, counterplots, intrigues, and the like before I have scarcely left their sight. It is a sovereign’s duty, like it or not, to provide grist for the vast gossip mill that is the royal court.
Cecil is pacing the floor in my withdrawing room, but halts abruptly as I enter and turns in my direction. His usual air of confidence is missing. He appears gray and worn. A stab of guilt darts through me, buried quickly beneath stark practicality. Cecil knows that I will always be unsparing in the demands I put on him. It is the bargain we struck years before when he offered his services on the chance that I would, despite all odds, rise to the throne and carry him also to great heights.
“Majesty,” he says, inclining his head.
I do not stand on ceremony but go to him and touch his face gently. “My poor Spirit, you are sorely used.”
For a moment, I fear that he will crumble before such unaccustomed kindness, but he rallies and even manages a faint smile.
“A poor night’s rest, nothing more. I am ready at your service, as always.”
“Well and good but sit.” I gesture to the servants, who hurry to pull out our chairs and bring dishes to the small, round table near the windows where I typically eat alone or with, at most, one or two intimates.
When I am seated, Cecil takes his chair. He waits until our cups are filled with stout and a platter of sliced beef is set before us. That, with a hearty mustard and a good white bread, makes a more than ample breakfast, in my opinion. I eat sparingly, as always, and Cecil seems too distracted to eat at all.
He takes a sip of stout, delicately pats the foam mustache from above his lips, and says, “I regret to tell you, Majesty, that the body of a young man was recovered from near the Thames this morning. He has not been identified yet, but his garb suggests that he was a member of the gentry. He bears ritual marks that Dee tells me are associated with Mordred and his kind.”
My hand freezes while spearing a slice of beef on the point of my knife. “What marks?”
“Twin piercings in the vicinity of his throat, from which apparently his life’s blood was drained.”
I drop my knife and sit back, staring at Cecil. “It is true then, they drink blood?”
He nods. “They depend on it for what they know as life. There have been other such occurrences of late. I regret to say that they are becoming more common. The conclusion appears unmistakable that the vampires are increasing both in number and boldness.”
“I can certainly vouch for the latter.”
Cecil raises a brow. “Majesty?”
Briefly, I tell him of my encounter with Mordred. Certain details I omit as irrelevant to our discussion. Cecil has no need to know of the vampire king’s otherworldly beauty or how easily I had been seduced into offering him such scant resistance. But my Spirit does need to understand my deep concern in the face of my helplessness.
“This power you and Dee claim I have acquired was in no way evident, not for a moment. I had no sense of it at all. The plain truth is that Mordred could have killed me, had he chosen, and I would have been helpless to stop him.”
Cecil reddens as I speak, but with my final words, the color drains from his face. He places both his hands flat on the table as though to steady himself and takes a deep, shuddering breath.
“Majesty … I do not know what to say. If this monster had—”
He does not have to continue. I understand all too well what would follow hard on my death. Rival factions warring for the throne—presumably including the vampires themselves—would tear the realm apart. Foreign enemies would not hesitate to take advantage of the opportunity provided by the resulting chaos. Before they were all done, my beloved land would be little more than a carcass picked clean.
“What matters,” I say quickly, “is that he did not. But before I even consider confronting him again, I must know if there is any truth to the powers that you and Dee claim I have.”
Regaining control of himself, Cecil says, “I know what we witnessed, Majesty. The radiance that surrounded you can only be termed otherworldly. I have never seen such a sight in all my life, and I cannot believe that it heralded anything less than a momentous transformation.”
Would that I shared his confidence, but until I have real evidence that he and the magus are right, I nurture grave doubts about my ability to deal with Mordred. That worry hangs over me as Cecil and I conclude our breakfast and he accompanies me to the presentation room, where I am scheduled to receive various foreign ambassadors.
I enter to the blare of trumpets, which even for so newly minted a queen as me sound oddly natural to my ears. How closely they all crowd round, my courtiers, foreign visitors, and the like. How avidly they watch me. The foreigners take my measure for their masters, to whom no doubt they will send reports on the next tide. But what I must manage most adroitly is the assessment of my own people, for my success as queen will rest as much on their trust and faith as on my will.
Sunlight streaming through the high windows gilds the oak paneling. I glance up at the banners hanging from the iron braces set all around the room. Some frayed and faded, others still fresh, they are the bold reminders of the struggles my ancestors waged to claim and hold the throne that is now my own. I look from that proud lineage to the avid crowd so gloriously arrayed and muster a bold smile.
“Good lords and ladies,” I say, “you are all welcome here. It is my duty but also my delight to receive you. We stand together at the beginning of a new age, on the cusp of a new world, and I say to you all that England shall play the noblest part in shaping what is to come. We are a nation and a people who have never shied from accepting the sternest challenges, and under my rule so shall we remain. Let the world know that this realm is and will always be free, strong, indomitable, and, above all, English!”
My nobles cheer heartily for they have a sensible fear of foreign entanglements. Too well they remember how the Spanish strutted through court while Mary ruled and how more than one Spaniard cast covetous eyes on English lands. So, too, they remember when the writ of Rome held sway over this land. Some no doubt miss that, but the clear-eyed, ambitious men and women of my court know which side of their bread holds the butter. They will not fail me, nor I them.
As for the foreign ambassadors, I see their sober gazes and understand that my words will resonate in their masters’ ears. I have thrown down a gauntlet, daring any to defy my rule and England’s freedom together. In time, some enemy or another will pick it up. But for the moment, frowns give way quickly to professional smiles and practiced congratulations.
Then there are the gifts, presented with flowery protestations of respect and friendship on behalf of monarchs I am quite certain bear me neither. Even so, gold, pearls, fine silks, and exotic porcelains will always find a home with me. I make a pretty speech thanking each ambassador and send them all on their ways having committed myself to precisely nothing. And I manage all that despite my mind being constantly on Mordred and the danger he presents.
At length, I am free to withdraw to my rooms to prepare for the afternoon’s tournament to be held in my honor. Robin is riding in the lists carrying my colors, of course. I am confident that he, always the most skilled of horsemen, will acquit himself nobly. I have a special purple gown for the occasion that I am looking forward to wearing. Purple may seem a risk with my fiery hair, but it looks uncommonly good on me, so my ladies say.
In Cecil’s company, I am returning to my apartment, making my w
ay through the eager members of my court, who bow low at my passing while trying their best to gain my notice. Several attempt to advance petitions, but I merely smile and keep on. They can work a little harder for my favor.
Cecil and I are speaking of my need to meet with Doctor Dee as we pass through the gallery leading to my rooms. My Spirit is assuring me that the magus will be able to answer all my doubts when a man springs suddenly from the crowd. I have only the most fleeting glimpse of him—young, dark-haired, wide-eyed—before he shouts, “Death to the usurper!” and flings himself at me.
The world seems to move out of kilter—or perhaps I do so. Whichever, we no longer fit together. Time slows and all else with it save myself. I am set apart, observing all that happens as the young man draws a knife from beneath his doublet and comes ever so slowly toward me. Cecil raises an arm—slowly, so slowly. Guardsmen move toward us, but they may as well crawl through quicksand. Every action and reaction that should happen in the blink of an eye plays out instead across a vastly longer horizon of time. Only I appear to be unaffected.
A shadow moves on the edge of this strangely stilted scene. With it comes a frisson of sensual awareness. The caress of air against my skin, the rhythm of my own heart, the sudden warmth rising in my body, all threaten to fill me with languor I can ill afford. I glance to the side just as Mordred appears. He looks much the same as he did in the garden, even to his chiding smile. Once again, the rush of attraction that overwhelmed me before in his presence threatens to take command. The realization of how powerfully I am drawn to him at once excites me and fills me with dread.
“Really, Elizabeth, you should take greater care. Or at least insist that those you entrust with your safety do so.”
I draw breath, remind myself that I am Queen, and face him squarely. “What do you know of this?”
“I? Only that this fellow—he was sent by the Pope, but you have so many enemies that scarcely matters—reached our fair shores a fortnight ago and has been making his way toward this moment ever since. None of your protectors discovered him, no one prevented him from entering into the very heart of your palace, and—if not for my interference—no one would have stopped him from killing you.”
He points at the young man, who stands now with his right arm raised, the knife gleaming in the rays of winter sun streaming through the high windows of the gallery. The hatred that contorts his face chills my blood.
“This is where you die, Elizabeth. Cut down a single day after your crowning. Your people will have scant time to mourn you before they can think of nothing but their own survival.”
This cannot be happening—I think. Having lived in the shadow of death for so long, I would have thought myself accustomed to the possibility that I can die at any moment. But face-to-face, quite literally, with my own mortality, I can scarcely grasp it. I stand frozen, staring with unwilling fascination at the final moments of my life.
Mordred shakes his head at my folly. He takes my arm and draws me off to the side of the gallery. “Consider this an illustration of our partnership, Elizabeth. When we reign together, you will be invulnerable. But until then—”
The supreme note of certainty in his voice returns me to myself, the realization that he considers it a foregone conclusion that I—poor, weak creature that he assumes me to be, for I have given him no reason to think otherwise—will fall in with his designs without demur. Pride can be a stumbling block, but it can also be a great source of strength in the darkest times.
I take a breath, another, and feel the veil of fear and disbelief that has paralyzed me dissolve.
Feel something else as well. Rising within me, a sense of light and strength that sings as it comes, as though all of Creation reverberates to a single, irresistible note. On the crest of that ethereal music, I strike.
“Never!” I exclaim. “I will never become as you! Slayer of your own father! Consorter with evil!”
I raise my arm and the light sings. I have my father’s crown but truly it is my mother’s blood that drives me in that moment. Blood that poured out on the scaffold, soaking into the land, nurturing my realm with all the love and care she would have given her own child had she been allowed to live.
Power gathers within me, shoots down my arm, and leaps across the small distance separating me from Mordred. A beam of silvered light strikes him full in the chest.
He reels back, staring at me in astonishment. With a snarl, he raises his own arm and sends at me a suffocating black cloud that would surely have snuffed the life from me did not I manage just then to block it with another bolt of light.
Neither one of us moves. We stand, staring at each other, light and dark, mortal and immortal, locked in combat, until finally Mordred says, “As you will, Elizabeth. But know this—I have had a thousand years to refine my powers. You will never be a match for me; I could kill you now, if I wished. I will give you time to discover that, to realize that you truly have no choice but to give me what I want.”
And with that he is gone, vanished into the black cloud, which disappears with him. I have no chance to think of what has happened or what it means, for at the same instant, time speeds up again, resuming its accustomed course.
I hear and see, in quick succession, Cecil cry out and—bless that dear man—charge directly at the attacker with his head down to butt him in the chest. At the same moment, the guards, no longer mired in quicksand, surge forward to seize the villain. Various people scream, one or two ladies affect to faint, but it is all over in moments. The man is on the ground, his hands secured behind him, the knife in the grip of one of my guards.
Everyone turns to me.
At once, I see their bewilderment. An instant before, I was walking beside Cecil, well within range of the attacker. But now I stand several yards away near a wall of the gallery.
I must act quickly before awkward questions can be asked.
“What a poor fellow this is,” I declare loudly as, smiling, I come forward. “To manage his business so ineptly. I swear I could have strolled to Greenwich and back before he remembered what he was about.”
“Majesty—,” Cecil begins but I silence him with a glance. My Spirit knows me well enough to realize that I have my reasons for making light of the situation.
“As you say,” he declares. Gesturing to the guards, he adds, “Secure this bumbling fool that he may be questioned at the Queen’s pleasure.”
Taking Cecil’s arm, I go on at equal volume, “I declare this must all be a farce. No doubt the poor dolt is an actor seeking attention for some group of players. Perhaps we should have them all to court. What do you think, good lords and ladies? Shall we allow them to entertain us?”
It is all nonsense, of course, and everyone knows that, but it is the best that I can do to sow confusion about exactly what happened and why. People will know what they saw, but as the evidence of their own eyes makes no sense, they will quickly come to doubt it. With a little adroit managing, the assault on me can at the least be minimized, if not made to vanish from memory altogether, or so I hope.
I move on down the gallery, but with each step my limbs feel weighted with lead. I am all but sagging against poor Cecil by the time we finally step inside my apartment. My ladies cluster round, unsure whether to cluck over me in distress or make light of the matter as I am doing. Kat is white with distress. I manage a wan smile for her and wave the others aside. With my Spirit’s help, I continue into my privy chamber, where I only just manage to reach my chair before collapsing.
“Yesterday’s festivities have left me wearier than I realized.” I have so little strength after the struggle with Mordred that I can scarcely hold up my head. This does not bode well for any future confrontations between us, but I cannot think of that just now. Indeed, I can scarcely think of anything.
Once again, dear Cecil intervenes. “I fear Your Majesty has caught a chill.”
Taking the hint, I sneeze. “Yes, you are right.”
At once, Kat musters my ladi
es into action. She seems considerably cheered for being given something to do. A posset is prepared, a night robe warmed. Cecil is banished until I can be bustled into bed, by which time I am deploying what little energy I have left to keep sneezing while dapping at my nose in what I hope is a convincing manner.
“The tournament—,” I say weakly.
“Will have to be postponed,” Kat declares. “Her Majesty must have complete rest, after which, no doubt, she will be perfectly fine.”
Cecil, who has only just then been readmitted, bends close to me and whispers, “Was it Mordred in the gallery? Was that what happened?”
I nod and grip his hand. “Tell Dee he is not wrong, Morgaine’s power is real, but it has left me sorely drained.”
A flash of relief darts across Cecil’s face but hard on it falls the shadow of dread. Truly, we both know that the power of which I speak is beyond the ken of mortal men and women.
“Then rest,” my faithful Spirit says, “and do not fear, I will see that no one makes too much of this. As soon as you are able, send word and I will bring Dee to you.”
“And Robin, as well. He knows more of this than any of us realized.”
Clearly, Cecil is not pleased. I know that he considers my feelings for Robin a bar to the royal marriage that everyone, including my Spirit, assumes I will have to make. But he acquiesces all the same, rightly judging that he has no choice.
“As you say, Majesty. There is also someone else I would like you to meet, a man I believe can be useful to us. I will bring him as well, with your permission.”
I nod but weakly for I am scarcely awake. Cecil’s voice fades as I drift into a dreamworld at once hauntingly familiar and unknown. Gilded rooms form and shift around me, filled with mist concealing whatever is occurring within. Shapes move but darkly, without sufficient form for me to recognize them. I hear voices but only one is familiar—my mother’s, Anne’s. I cannot make out her words no matter how I strain to do so but I sense urgency in her tone.
I am still trying to listen to her when a light tapping at my door returns me to this world.