Secret History of Elizabeth Tudor, Vampire Slayer

by Lucy Weston

  We make our way past the thrall without arousing it but shortly encounter two more. Both are as unresponsive as Walsingham promised they would be. The phenomenon seems bewildering until I consider that perhaps the will of the vampires is needed to animate these helpless beings. While their masters sleep, their slaves remain insensible.

  Dee may be thinking along similar lines for his color improves as he throws off the fear that has kept him stooped and anxious ever since entering the manor.

  “If legend is to be our guide,” the magus says, “we should consider that the sleep of vampires is said to mimic death. They are believed to favor crypts for their resting place.”

  “Is there a church on the grounds?” Robin asks. “If so, it is likely to have a crypt.”

  “Not so far as I have discovered,” Walsingham replies. “However, I have examined the original plans for the manor and confirmed that there was a private chapel. I suggest we start there.”

  The chapel is on the far side of the entry opposite the hall. We enter through an intricately carved wooden door depicting the fall of man and the expulsion from Eden.

  Robin calls my attention to the scene. “Apt, wouldn’t you say?”

  I recall Mordred’s argument that either the vampires are as much a part of God’s natural order as we are or there is no God as we conceive Him. With all that has happened so quickly, I have yet to find a cogent response to his argument, but one will undoubtedly come to me in time.

  Beyond the cautionary door with its reminder of human frailty, the chapel is much as I would expect. Great houses always have some lavish space set aside to demonstrate the owner’s piety. Such private chapels were spared the depredations that fell upon public churches and abbeys when my father remade the world. These enclaves remain much as they have been for centuries. This one boasts a high ceiling supported by intricately carved columns and painted to resemble a starry sky. In addition, stained-glass windows represent the Passion of Christ, and a tiled floor is laid out in a mosaic of the Greek letters alpha and omega to remind us that our Savior is the beginning and end of all things. Lastly, upon the altar gleams a gold and jeweled cross of rare beauty.

  “How astonishing that Mordred and his kind left all this intact,” Dee exclaims.

  “Perhaps they feared to enter,” Robin suggests. “We may be in the wrong place.”

  I walk closer to the altar, studying it. The entrance to many crypts is down steps near the altar. But I can find no trace of any such thing here.

  “My father had this manor built. His architects might have included a crypt for tradition’s sake, but they as easily could have omitted it. Neither would the Archbishop of York, to whom the manor passed, have had reason to add such a thing.”

  Walsingham looks disconcerted. “Then where could the vampires be?”

  “A house of this size will have vast undercrofts for the storage of food, armaments, prisoners, and the like,” Robin says. “We could spend days searching them.”

  Dread fills me. If we fail to find Mordred quickly, he will strike with all his might. As much as I want to believe that I can defeat him in fair battle, I would much prefer not to have to find out.

  Regrettably, what Robin says makes good sense; the vampires may well retire to the undercrofts by day. But is Mordred among them?

  It is a truth understood by those who hold power, but not always by those who seek it, that people yearn to believe in something greater than themselves, something set apart and above them. A wise ruler encourages that belief.

  If I were Mordred, where would I seek my rest? Among my kind, as one of them, or somewhere exclusively my own?

  The moment the question occurs to me, I try to root it from my mind. We are nothing alike, the vampire king and I. Fate has made us enemies for a reason; we see the world and everything in it entirely differently. But for all that, we are bound together by forces I have only just begun to sense. Like it or not, there is a link between us. Can I use that to my own ends?

  If I were he, where would I go?

  Walsingham looks at me intently, as though he is following the play of thoughts across my face. “Majesty … you have a thought?”

  “Would that I did…” My voice trails off. I sink into memory, striving to recall every tiny fragment that I can reconstruct from each encounter I have had with Mordred, anything that might give me a hint of his whereabouts. Nothing comes to me. I drift instead to thoughts of Morgaine in her eternal home on the hill where now the Tower sits.

  In fair sight of this hill rising above Southwark is Mordred’s ancient home that he has reclaimed.

  “This manor boasts a tower, does it not? I thought I noticed it in darkness when I came the first time and again when we entered now.”

  “It does,” Walsingham agrees. “But I fail to see—”

  “Show me the way to it.”

  If I am mistaken, we will waste what little time we have, yet I am gripped by a sudden conviction that will not loose hold of me: The tower would have an excellent view out over the river toward Tower Hill. Within it, Mordred would have constant sight not only of the city at the heart of the realm he aspires to rule but most particularly of the place where Morgaine dwelled. The more I think on it, the less I can imagine him anywhere else.

  A tight spiral of stone steps leads upward. I insist on taking the lead, to the consternation of the gentlemen, especially Robin, who must be dissuaded from pulling out his sword and charging straight ahead.

  We mount slowly and with care. Torches set at intervals along the curving wall cast twisting shadows. In their flickering light, we appear as giants even as I feel the full weight of my own doubts threatening to crush me into nothingness.

  If I am not strong enough—

  If I waiver in my conviction—

  If fortune simply does not favor me—

  Fie with fortune! And fie with all the rest as well. I will slay Mordred and take his power as I took that of Blanche. With that, no one will be able to come against me ever.

  But I will keep my humanity all the same because I love and am loved.

  And because I am Elizabeth, daughter of Anne, who died rather than sacrifice her soul—and mine—to evil.

  The top of the winding steps gives out into a large, circular room with a high, vaulted ceiling. Fading daylight pours through high windows that look out toward the city. I can make out Tower Hill clearly, but I have scant time to notice it before I am distracted. Books and scrolls line the walls in number beyond any I have ever seen. Many are lavishly bound within embossed leather set with jewels and secured with golden clasps. Others are of such an age that the leather has worn away, revealing the wooden boards beneath, still protecting the precious pages within. What must be the oldest works are the scrolls rolled within leather and horn cases that are themselves ornately embellished.

  What treasures are among them? What works long forgotten or believed lost? The scholar in me yearns to delve into their midst and not emerge again until I have plumbed at least some measure of their mystery.

  But the queen I must be remembers her business. I cast a long look around the library and am disappointed. “There is no sign of him here.”

  Indeed, but there is another door leading … where?

  “With me.” Before I can think better of it, I plunge through the door into the room beyond. Unlike as in the library, the windows of this chamber are heavily curtained to block out all light.

  Even so, such is the power of my heightened senses that I can detect the shape of a bier set in the center of the floor. It appears to be draped in velvet and lying upon it …

  Mordred.

  I do not hesitate but raise my arm to strike at once. The blow I loose bathes the room in incandescent white light. The air itself tears apart in a shriek that echoes across the stone walls. Dimly, I am aware of Robin thrown back by the force of it, but my attention is focused on the vampire king. To my horror, in the very instant before my blow would have struck him, he roll
s to the side, drops off the bier, and in an instant is on his feet.

  “Elizabeth.” My name sounds to my ears like a hiss, long drawn out and evocative of the serpent I have so lately seen carved into the door of the chapel below.

  A suffocating cloud of blackness hurls toward me. Behind it, I hear him clearly. “How nice of you to call. And you’ve brought friends.”

  I have no choice but to strike again before the light of my first blow has faded. The effect is blinding. When next I can see, the black cloud remains intact but at least it is no closer to me. I am managing to hold it off even as Mordred hovers above to mock me. He is, as always, beautiful in the extreme, his eyes aglow with power, his manner regal, his strength so vast as to set the very air to strumming. Every nerve in my body shivers in response. I have never been more drawn to him nor more repulsed by my weakness.

  “Shall I take this as your answer to my proposal?” he asks.

  Is it he I loathe or myself? He has opened a window into my soul to reveal possibilities that would tempt the purest saint. He has enticed me to reject everything I was raised to believe in and reach instead for what I simply want. Were I to do as he wishes, I would have to reject my mother’s sacrifice and my father’s legacy together.

  What then would be left of me?

  “Take it any way you wish, fiend!”

  Again, I strike at him, but again he eludes my blow. The chamber cannot contain the energy we both unleash. Slowly but unmistakably, the stone walls begin to crack.

  Behind me, I can hear Dee frantically muttering incantations. To the side, I catch sight of Walsingham, all the color washed from him as his lips move in prayer. Robin is upright again, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Stone dust showers down from the ceiling of the chamber. The cracks are spreading in all directions. Through them I catch a glimpse of the sky. Day is fast fading; the first scattering of stars has appeared.

  Night is almost upon us.

  The light gathers in me, a wave growing in remorseless power as it races toward the shore. Everything I am, everything I can be, surges in this single breath of time.

  Beyond the dark, thickening cloud, Mordred starts. He has not guessed the full extent of what I have become. I am a heartbeat away from destroying him when—

  Robin—dear, foolish Robin—yanks his sword from its scabbard and darts forward, directly into the path of the blow I am about to unleash. No doubt he means to protect me or prove his valor or show himself as the worthy consort he believes himself to be. Or perhaps none of that is true and he acts purely on rash impulse. It does not matter.

  With a flick of his hand, Mordred takes command of him. Before my horrified eyes, he lifts Robin free of the ground, his sword falling from fingers suddenly unable to clasp it. My sweet, infuriating love hangs suspended in the air before being yanked forward. The moment he is close enough, Mordred lashes out an arm and grasps him around the throat.

  The stone walls begin to tumble. The last rays of the setting sun are too low to touch the tower; darkness swallows us. With a triumphant laugh, Mordred rises past the wreckage and soars into the sky, taking Robin with him.

  In an instant, they both vanish.

  Did I know that Elizabeth would bring her dog with her? Certainly, I had an inkling. Dudley had been left behind before and had yapped about it. And she had taken him along to the Tower when she met Morgaine there. I had seen the undeniable evidence of her feelings for him. When my rage—and I admit my grief—at Blanche’s demise cooled a little, I knew what I had to do.

  Elizabeth would seek to strike first, of that I was certain. Once in possession of Blanche’s power—second only to my own—she would waste no time. I considered laying a trail for her to follow to find me but thought better of it lest I raise her suspicions. I was counting on her intelligence to determine my whereabouts and I was not disappointed.

  Had I not been expecting her, that first blow she hurled at me would have meant my end. Strange to think of that. After existing for so many years, I might actually have perished. And then what? The damnation that Elizabeth and no doubt many others believe is my due? Nothingness? Or perhaps something far more remarkable than any of us, mortal or otherwise, can imagine.

  But I digress. With Dudley in my grip, I removed myself from the manor to the secure location I had already prepared. Although it irks me to admit it, he bore his sudden captivity with as much courage as a man can be asked to muster. Although ashen and trembling as he confronted me, he strove for the semblance of valor.

  The moment I released my hold around his throat, he staggered several feet away, gasped for breath, and, having found it, lashed out at me.

  “Foul fiend! If you think to use me to harm my beloved Queen, think again. I will happily die a thousand deaths rather than have her discomfited in the slightest!”

  I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at this bit of melodrama. Even so, I will admit to responding in like manner.

  “Fear not, faithful hound, I have no intention of killing you. In fact, it is your continued life that interests me.”

  As he stared at me in angry bewilderment, I gave him a firm shove backward into the cell I had readied and quickly slammed the heavy door. As I secured it, I saw his white face through the narrow grill. He was consumed with the fear and helplessness that is the fate of all mortals, whether they wish to recognize it or not. I could pity them for that, but really it just confirms the essential pointlessness of their lives.

  Except, of course, insofar as they can serve and sustain my kind. That solace, at least, I can offer them.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded.

  Over my shoulder, I replied, “To bargain for your life. Pray to whatever god you like that I succeed.”

  With that, I lifted into the night.

  Night, 22 January 1559

  I am in a pit, at the bottom of a well. Around me there is only darkness and despair. I cannot move or think or do anything other than cry out against what has happened.

  “Robin!”

  What devilish twist of fate has ripped him from me even as I stood by helplessly and did nothing?

  Dee and Walsingham drag me along with them as they flee the collapsing tower. We only just descend the spiral steps before the whole gives way, sending huge blocks of masonry down all around us. Choking on clouds of stone dust, we race through and around the wreckage, along the frost-rimmed drive, and out beyond the iron gates.

  Nothing stirs in the street beyond. No one has come to see what is happening. Londoners, normally the most curious of people, are nowhere in evidence.

  Behind us is a different matter. The vampire court is awakening to the discovery of what has happened. Already, I can hear their howls.

  “We must get you to safety, Majesty!” Walsingham exclaims.

  I would laugh were my throat not so tight with shock and tears. Safety? There is no such thing. It is as much an illusion as is the world itself.

  Only despair is real.

  Crossing back over the river, I stare down into the pewter water and imagine myself sinking into it. And why not? I have failed utterly. My power—not to say my vanity—proved unequal to Mordred’s wiles. Because of that, Robin will die or worse yet be condemned to the living death of a thrall.

  Either thought is unbearable. I suck in a sob between my teeth and struggle to find some fragment of strength in this most desperate hour.

  “Where could he have taken him?” I ask.

  Sitting on the plank facing me, Dee and Walsingham exchange a look. The magus says, “I will examine the skies, Majesty, and cast charts, but all that will take time and—”

  Walsingham makes a dismissive sound. “The answer Your Majesty seeks is not to be found in the heavens. It is on the ground, where I will set my eyes and ears to ferret out every morsel of intelligence. But again, it will take some time—”

  Time! Time! All that they propose will take precious hours if not days, and in the meantime Robin remains Mordred�
�s hostage. What if he has already drained my love of his mortal life?

  From deep within myself, past all fear and anguish, cold reason rises. It comes implacably, a ruthless warrior striding into battle. Before it, all else falls away. What is its origin? My mother’s proud spirit, steadfast faith, and courage? Oh, how I would like to believe that! But it is my father I see against the landscape of my mind—the monarch bestride the world, fighting for all that he believed in no matter what the cost. Great Henry, who sacrificed friendship, love, and faith together for the sake of his kingship. Who became the monster he believed he had to be to preserve his realm.

  Reason speaks above human weakness.

  What good is a hostage if not to be bargained for?

  While I am thinking only of finding Robin, Mordred has to find me, if only to reveal his terms for leaving Robin unharmed. He will know exactly where to look.

  “Hurry! I must reach the palace!”

  At my command, the wherryman bends his back to the oars. He rows with the fury of a sober fellow with a keen instinct for trouble and the will to avoid it. Each passing moment speeds us toward the shore. I have scant time to decide how to proceed.

  I have encountered Mordred in two locations in Whitehall—the gallery where the would-be assassin came at me and before that in the walled garden reached down the hidden passage from my chamber. Scarcely does the wherry bump against the water steps than I am on my feet, stepping over Dee and Walsingham before they can rise. Without pause, I race for the garden.

  Over my shoulder, I call, “Do not follow me! Stay well clear!”

  The winter garden is dark and still. Frost crackles beneath my feet. I take a breath and free the senses that have grown so powerful since my awakening.

  He is here; I can feel him, a dark and forceful presence hovering somewhere nearby. I turn in all directions, but see only bare trees and empty flower beds, the debris of the season of death that will, please God, give way in time to spring’s rebirth. But first … what is that there in the shadows near the wall?

  Mordred steps from the darkness as naturally as another man would walk from his house into the street at the height of day. He is all in black, as ever, but the light that glows from within him is breathtaking in its beauty. He smiles as though genuinely pleased to see me.