Secret History of Elizabeth Tudor, Vampire Slayer

by Lucy Weston

  “Alas, Majesty, there is every reason to believe that they would not. Our realm lies under mortal threat such as has not been seen in a thousand years. Only you can save us.”

  For a moment, panic rises in me. I cannot possibly be equal to so great a task. All my life I have been told that I am a mere female, lacking the courage and heart of a true king. A realm ruled by a woman is an aberration. My people wait in expectation of my marriage so that they may have the comfort of a man’s steady hand on me and on my throne.

  Fie on that! I am Elizabeth, daughter of Anne. I have survived the effort of my enemies to destroy me from the day of my birth. They are as dust whereas I am Queen. But I am also just beginning to realize that I am more; I am heiress to Morgaine and as such the Slayer so long awaited. Mordred thinks to stop me by harming my people. Better he think how to save himself when I come against him!

  “Majesty?”

  Cecil is looking at me peculiarly. I have not spoken but something in my expression gives him pause.

  “We must not act impulsively,” he cautions.

  My resolve is as steel within me, molten hot and ready to be poured into the vessel of my will. Yet I see the wisdom of what he says. Rising, I extend my hand. “Nor can we delay. I count on you to confer with Doctor Dee and to discover whatever Walsingham has learned. Then we must prepare. I will not suffer my people to be under such threat another night. Do you understand me?”

  He clambers to his feet, bows over my hand, and nods. “As you wish, Majesty, but—”

  “Do as I bid.” I soften the dictate with a smile. “Now go, dear friend. I must dress and show myself to the court before rumor spins my ‘cold’ into every imaginable ailment.”

  He sees the sense in that and takes his leave, swiftly replaced by my ladies, who flutter around me, chattering like so many bright magpies as they dress me.

  I go from my chamber armored in queenly raiment. My mother’s diadem is on my head and I am ready, so I tell myself, for whatever is to come.

  Midday, 17 January 1559

  “Huzzah!”

  The crack of a lance snapping in two rebounds off the wooden walls raised between the tilting field and the canopied grandstand where I sit enthroned, surrounded by my ladies and the more favored of my nobles. The tournament in honor of my coronation is finally under way. I smile and offer a queenly wave to Lord Dacre, who has just unseated Baron Chumsley, who should have known better than to position himself quite so high in the saddle when riding full tilt against one of Dacre’s experience. Assuming the baron, who at the moment is lying flat and unmoving on the sand, recovers, it is to be hoped that he will learn from the encounter.

  The day is a hard, frozen blue. The more agile Londoners have strapped boards on their feet and are slip-sliding along the roads and lanes covered in muddy ice. Thanks be to God, the river still runs. If the Thames freezes, the commerce of the city will cease, and we will have no end of trouble.

  My face hurts for smiling. For all my effort, I fear I must look like an animal brought to bay, showing its teeth in fierce defiance. Night cannot come too swiftly. But first I must endure the ritual combat of my nobles, their substitute for the true warfare for which they all supposedly yearn and, not incidentally, a demonstration of their prowess before the foreign ambassadors. Let those worthies write to their masters that the men who would lead my armies are well suited to the task, being both fearless and skilled in the arts of war. Perhaps that will buy us some little time.

  The tournament drags on. At least the groundlings are amused. Those good, plain citizens of London smashed up against the far side of the wall, cheering and groaning according to the fortunes of their favorites, spitting, farting, gnawing on goose legs and quaffing ale, both generously provided in my name, seem to be enjoying the effort more than any of their betters.

  I watch them as much as I watch the matches for the truth is that I have attended too many tournaments to find any novelty in them whereas my people are still largely unknown to me. They are as good-natured in their contentment as any monarch could hope for, but they have also perfected the art of sullenness, being expert at standing in clusters with their heads tucked into their shoulders, letting their silence shout for them. Only rarely are they bold enough to hurl curses, as they did at my mother. As they will at me if I falter.

  My ladies are chilled. They shiver in their silk and damask gowns and sway as close as they can to the tall braziers glowing with coals set to either side of my chair. I, to the contrary, feel heated from within. My new, as yet barely understood, self stirs impatiently. My blood is up and the hunt calls.

  At last—at long last—the trumpets sound and Robin rides out into the list on a big black charger that snorts and throws his head in his eagerness. The plated metal armoring man and horse gleams brightly. My darling has vied twice already this day, handily defeating both opponents, and now he will contest for the champion’s crown.

  I rise, my smile finally genuine, and extend my hand. The crowd cheers well enough but I see the groundlings nudging one another, winking as I draw long silk ribbons from my hair to tie around Robin’s lance. He rides as my favorite, as well he should, for no one else so deserves the honor. Let the rabble and nobility alike make of that what they will. His grin is wide and bold in the moment before he drops his visor and turns into the list.

  The trumpets sound again and I resume my seat, hoping that no one will see how my hands grip the carved arms. The thudding hooves of the horses throw up clods of dirt as they race toward each other. Robin faces off against Lord Haverston, who, under ordinary circumstances, I hold in some favor. He is brash and ambitious, blindly courageous, and, as far as I know, loyal. In short, much like Robin himself. Were circumstances different, I would have nothing whatsoever against the man. But now I would happily see him gutted in two and spread out as carrion bait rather than have a hair on Robin’s head harmed.

  Ravens rise into the sky and circle lazily. Sunlight bounces off the steel tips of the lances. The sleek flanks of the horses glow with a fine sheen of sweat. I can smell the wet sand, hear the sizzle of goose fat, see the shards of color that dance in a spray of mist drifting over the river. All my senses are painfully heightened. It is taking too long! My throat constricts and I cannot breathe. Robin’s lance is lowered, well aimed, but so is his opponent’s. They hurtle toward each other as time suddenly catches up with itself.

  The lance strikes directly in the center of Robin’s chest. He is lifted half out of the saddle, caught offside as his charger rears, and Robin falls … so far … falling as though forever. The horse’s hooves tear at the air above him. A well of silence swallows me. I move through it without thought or hesitation. My ladies try to restrain me but I throw them off. I am free of the grandstand and at the wall, tearing at it, desperate to get through, when a boy, no more than a child, his grimy face red with winter’s chill, sees me and throws open a narrow gate.

  I am through and across the sand, hurling myself on the ground beside Robin while the charger still snorts and paws above. Someone behind me is shouting, a great many someones.

  To the Queen! To the Queen!

  His blood is on my hands. Sobbing, I wrench off his helmet, see the whites of his eyes rolling, and grasp the hard metal about his shoulders.

  “Robin, don’t leave me!”

  The world is careening out of all control. My heart is set to explode in my chest. I barely see the men-at-arms who seize the reins of the charger and pull him aside in the instant before his hooves would have come down on us both. We are surrounded, caught in a flurry of motion, more shouts, a great bustling to and fro in the midst of which Robin is lifted onto a litter and carried off the field. He manages to raise one hand and wave to the crowd, which roars its approval.

  Whatever sense of self-preservation I still have drives me to paste on a smile and wave in my own turn even as I make to follow the litter.

  Cecil is standing in my path.

  “This way, Majest
y,” he says, and gestures toward the grandstand where Robin’s distraught opponent awaits, still on his horse. His helmet is tucked under his arm and he looks like a man deciding in which direction to flee.

  The crowd is cheering. I walk stiff-legged and climb the stairs I went down so hastily. I take a breath and smooth my gown as my ladies flutter about. Someone thrusts a laurel wreath into my hands. Someone else, I suspect it is Cecil, shoves me forward.

  I speak. The words come out by rote. As though from a great distance, I hear myself and marvel at how great a fraud I am.

  Haverston, who must be preserved from my vengeance lest my justice be called into doubt, all but sags in relief as I congratulate him on his victory and crown the tip of his lance with laurel for the victor. Grace to God, it bears no trace of Robin’s blood or else I swear, I would not have been able to touch it. He has the great good sense not to linger but beats a hasty retreat back toward the competitors’ tents. Cecil takes my arm and steers me from the grandstand. Leaning close, he says, “Lord Dudley has been taken to his chambers, my lady. The physicians are with him now.”

  “I must go—”

  Cecil’s grip tightens almost but not quite imperceptibly. “His Honor the ambassador from the Duchy of Hesse has asked to speak with you.”

  “He can wait.” For eternity if I have my way, but what are the odds of that? Already I have learned that as queen, I no longer belong to myself.

  “With respect, Majesty, if you appear overly attentive—”

  He means any more than I have already done, making a spectacle of myself in front of the whole court and the rabble as well. Word of my devotion to Robin will be flying down every lane and byway. Hard upon it will come even more speculation about our relationship. If I am perceived as an immoral or loose woman, the Pope and all the rest of my enemies will claim even greater cause to come against me.

  Except for Mordred, of course, who I have to assume has no need of any such advantage.

  “I will arrange for word to be brought to you as soon as anything is known,” Cecil says quietly.

  We move on, back into the palace, through the usual crowd of hangers-on and petitioners. As always, I nod and smile, smile and nod. A sudden thought cracks the brittle shell around me, and for a moment hysterical laughter wells up in my throat.

  “What is it?” Cecil asks, frowning.

  “When I am dead, how long do you think it will take the poor unfortunates charged with laying me out to wipe this odious grin from my face?”

  “Majesty!”

  Cecil is dismayed and rightly so. He does not deserve my petulance under any circumstances, not even these. Yet I cannot help myself. Even as I go through the motions of listening to the ambassador from Hesse—a dreary, overly earnest man—I can think only of Robin, his wounds, his pain, his life.

  Finally, the meeting is over. I am allowed to withdraw. Cecil comes to me a short time later in my chambers. At sight of him, I send my ladies away. Whatever he has to tell me, I do not want witnesses.

  “He is recovering, Majesty. The injury was small, the bleeding quickly stanched. I spoke with him myself. He asked that I assure you that he is well and will wait upon you very shortly.”

  The terror that has gripped me since the instant I saw my beloved fall dissolves abruptly. I sag in my chair but only for a moment. Quickly I stiffen my spine.

  “Not tonight.” Even as I give fervent thanks to God for Robin’s survival, relief of a different kind floods me. The plain truth is that I do not want him to go with me as I venture out into my city to do what I must. I do not want him to see, more than he has already done, what I am becoming.

  “Tell him that I bid him rest well and recover fully. He may call upon me tomorrow.”

  Cecil does not take his eyes from me as he sketches a bow. “As you say, Majesty. There is other news as well. Walsingham waits to speak with you and Dee is also here.”

  I take a breath, let it out slowly, gathering myself. “Show them in.”

  Night, 17 January 1559

  We cross the river again by stealth, taking care to avoid the watch. I am concerned that they may interfere with my plans but Walsingham reassures me, “After the horror the watchmen witnessed last night, they will not be on the streets, Majesty.”

  I want to believe him but remain concerned. “How can we be certain?” Surely among the watch are at least some men of valor and conscience who will not be deterred from their duty even in the face of such peril?

  “They have been told to tend to the safety of their families and let their betters deal with the rest,” Cecil says.

  “And they are content to do so?” I ask.

  “Should they not be?” Dee faces me in the wherry, his cloak drawn close against the chill, his ruddy face alight with excitement. However much the rest of us dread what we are about to encounter, Dee knows no such burden. All things in the universe, be they good or evil, fascinate him.

  “Ordinary folk endure much,” he continues, “at the behest of their betters. But in return they are supposed to be protected. That is the compact the nobility strikes with them, otherwise surely they would revolt rather than be treated as they are.”

  I am tempted to ask what is so bad about the lot of ordinary folk, but I suspect the magus of adhering to the radical idea that as all men are equal in the sight of God, they should be equal in each other’s as well. Truly, if that addled notion ever becomes common currency, the world will be undone.

  We alight at the bottom of the High Street, as before, and quickly make our way up the bank. Barely have we done so than I am struck by the change from the previous night. Whereas before the street and lanes were crowded with drunks, whores, beggars, and the like now they are empty. Scarcely a soul is stirring out of doors. The men of the watch may have held their tongues, but others have been whispering. Sensible folk, well aware of how swiftly disaster can descend, are taking no chances.

  For just an instant, I think that a lack of prey may discourage the vampires and make my task all the harder. The thought dismays me. Surely, I have a better care for my people than that?

  And yet, I must be realistic. True enough, I have come to stop another wave of killings, but even more important, I have come to do as I must to increase my own power. I make no apologies for that.

  “If they hunt tonight,” I say, “the vampires will have to go where people think themselves safe.”

  Every stouthearted Englishman wants to believe that his home is his castle, but I suspect people feel better protected against danger in other places. To our right, I see the dark mass of St. Savior’s Church, its square towers looming above the cluster of its outbuildings. The church appears quiet, but even as I watch, a small group scurries through the wisps of fog rising from the river and slips through the gate. A moment later, when the sanctuary door is opened to admit them, I glimpse lamps burning inside and what looks like a considerable mass of people huddled there.

  “Perhaps we should make for Southwark Manor,” Cecil suggests. “If Mordred really is in residence there—”

  “We cannot be certain of that,” Walsingham says. He has reported to us earlier about his investigations into the manor, but now he adds, “The absence of property records is suspicious, of course, but hardly unique.”

  He alludes, without actually saying so, to the confusion regarding property that has plagued the realm since so many church holdings were seized and sold off, whether for profit or to buy the loyalty of the great families. Clear title, so prized and defended in this land down through the centuries, is just one more casualty of my father’s reign. Slowly, the records are being reassembled but there are still notable gaps.

  “I have confirmed that the property was sold by the late Archbishop of York,” Walsingham says, “but as to who purchased it or whether it has been sold again since, I cannot be certain.”

  I glance again toward the church and decide. “It does not matter. We cannot take the risk that while we look elsewhere, the vamp
ires will come here and wreak havoc.”

  Cecil looks aghast. “Surely they would not dare to enter a church?”

  Would they not? Mordred truly appears to believe that he and his kind are as much a part of God’s plan as are we. Or else, he suggests, there is no God. In either case, why would there be any barrier to the vampires entering holy ground?

  “I don’t know whether they would or not. But I will not leave my people in such peril.”

  We conceal ourselves as best we can near the approach to St. Savior’s. For a time, nothing happens. I am chilled to the bone and at the point of questioning the wisdom of my strategy when a flicker of movement near the treetops catches my eye.

  Beside me, Cecil gasps as a pair of vampires come out of the sky and settle lightly on the snow-covered ground. My startled Spirit and I only just manage to grab hold of Dee in time to stop the magus, in his fascination, from revealing our position. Only Walsingham appears unaffected, standing silently and unmoving as he observes our adversaries.

  “Remain here,” I say under my breath, and step forward. Hours before, I watched the ritualized combat of the joust with all its rules and conventions. Men argue that the same code must be observed in warfare lest the killing be without honor. Yet from what I have heard, once battle is joined, such niceties are forgotten.

  I dispense with any such nonsense from the start. As I draw my next breath, I raise my arm and, without warning, send a spear of light hurtling at the nearest vampire. It hits him full in the chest. He stops stock-still, stares down at himself, and in an instant splinters into nothingness.

  The other is turning toward me when I strike again. Give him credit, he manages to leap away from my first blow, gaining the sky before I strike him down with the second. He splinters as he falls toward the ground, showering it with tiny fragments of light that blink out and are gone in a heartbeat.