Secret History of Elizabeth Tudor, Vampire Slayer (11 page)

As I speak, the reasonable enough fear that I feel at confronting Mordred again falls away. Once more, I sense the singing light rise within me. Nor am I alone. The faces of the men
change markedly at the same moment, and I realize that they are seeing me transformed.

Driven by curiosity I cannot resist, I look beyond them to the tall, gold-framed mirror set on its own stand near the fireplace. Since my ascension to the throne, I have seen myself in that glass many times, usually garbed as a queen to meet my people, which is to say as an icon of hope and faith. But never have I seen myself like this. My body is wreathed in light; only my face and the fiery glory of my hair are visible. I appear an otherworldly creature of eerie beauty.

The light ebbs slowly but a faint halo of luminescence remains all around me.

Robin is breathing hard as though he has received a great shock. I can scarcely blame him. Dee has paled but his eyes glitter with exhilaration. Walsingham smiles as though pleased by this affirmation of my power.

“At least allow me to summon guards to accompany us,” Cecil says finally. He cannot take his eyes from me.

With an effort, I wrench my gaze from the mirror. “No guards. We cannot risk anyone else finding out about this. Cecil, you will remain here at court to deflect curiosity. I will tell my ladies that I am not to be disturbed by any but you. Let it be known that I am recovering well.”

“Majesty—” Cecil looks so anguished by my decision that I cannot help but regret causing him such distress. But queens are made of sterner stuff than ordinary folk. No amount of concern for him or anyone else will sway me from my course.

“This is not a matter for debate, Sir William. Mister Walsingham, are you prepared to guide me?”

“I am, of course, Majesty—”

“Not without me,” Robin says. “If you will allow no other guard, you will at least accept my protection.”

“And my own,” Doctor Dee adds quietly. It does not escape my notice that he has made no effort to dissuade me. Nor has Walsingham. Either they value my life less than do Robin and Cecil or they are less blinded by sentiment.

“I have no skill with a sword,” Dee adds, “but I do have certain other means available to me should we encounter any difficulty.”

So it is settled—Cecil will remain behind to conceal my absence while Robin, Dee, Walsingham, and I take to the streets of London, hunting a vampire who might be persuaded—by whatever means necessary—to yield useful information. I confess to a surge of excitement as I contemplate so daring a quest.

Robin is considerably less enthusiastic. As he secures the silver chains he has sent for in a pouch fastened around his waist, he murmurs for my ears only, “I still say this is madness, but if you must do it, then at least promise you will stay close to me?”

I toss a nod that I hope he takes for assent as I fasten my boots and throw a long, black wool cloak over my shoulders, securing it to conceal my garb fully. With the hood pulled up to cover my hair, I fancy that no one will recognize me.

Walsingham dons his own cloak, as does Dee. Robin makes do with a short cape that will not interfere with his sword arm. Together, we four make ready to venture into the hidden passage.

Just before we go, I clasp Cecil’s hand. “Do not torment yourself with worry. We will be back before dawn.”

White-faced and clearly beyond such facile reassurances, my Spirit nods nonetheless. “If you are not, you understand that I will be unable to conceal your absence much beyond then?”

“You will do as you must.” We share a look, a tacit reminder of the plans we have made in the event of my death. I have,
contrary to what most of my advisers believe, named an heir, but I have done so secretly for I am not such a fool as to raise a rival to my rule. I will say only that my Scottish cousin should make no plans to come to England, for not even death will drive me to settle her posterior upon my throne.

But enough of that; the topic displeases me mightily.

Robin opens the door to the passage and we go, I in the lead with the others following close behind. Shortly, we come out into the walled garden where I encountered Mordred the previous night. From there, it is only a few yards to the concealed ironbound door hidden amid the fall of ivy. Robin opens it with a key.

Silently, we slip out, securing the door behind us. I stand for a moment, breathing in the night scents of my city as it occurs to me that I have never before gone among my people unheralded and unrecognized. All my life has been spent within the precincts of palaces and great houses, sealed off from the world beyond. I am at once excited and afraid of what I will discover as I set off after Walsingham into the narrow, twisting streets of London.

Walsingham must have arranged to have a boat waiting at the bottom of the Whitehall water steps, whether to whisk him away quickly if his meeting with me did not go well or in anticipation of his plan’s being accepted I cannot say. We step into it quickly, the four of us taking our seats on the rough wood planks. The night is cold but there is no wind to claw through our cloaks and chill us to the bone. Instead, an unnatural stillness hangs over us, broken only by the thrust of the oars as the wherryman glides us out onto the dark river. Looking back over my shoulder, I see the tall windows of my palace aglow against the darkness. The court will be at supper, after which there is to be a masque. Banquets bore me, but I adore a good masque and I regret missing it. Never mind; far more serious matters beckon.

The tide is running with us and we make good speed down-river around the bend from Westminster and from there to the opposite shore of the river. Our little group steps out onto the shingle ledge. Water laps against stone steps slick with moss. Robin goes first. He reaches down to take my hand and help me up the steps. We move carefully onto the road that runs along the bankside. Directly ahead of us is the High Street rising to St. Margaret’s Hill, where the bullrings and bear-baiting rings are. I can see the distant glow of torches and hear the blood cheers of the crowd. To our right looms the far quieter precincts of St. Savior’s Church, the site of heresy trials during my sister’s
reign. Some claim they can still hear the wailing of the doomed, but to my ears nothing disturbs the silence save my own measured breath. Far more lively are the timber-and-daub taverns all along the High Street that cater to travelers en route to and from the south. Light and laughter spill from them, and in the near distance, I catch a snatch of song.

Rats scatter at our approach. I pull my skirts up several inches above my ankles and advance cautiously. At this late hour, most Londoners are home or already in their beds, but here the streets remain as full as in broad day. More than a few of those we pass appear drunk, lurching as they walk, while up ahead a pair engage in clumsy fisticuffs. Women, some little more than girls, hover in the cast-off light of tavern windows. Despite the chill, most have pulled down their bodices to expose their breasts, their nipples pale and puckered, surrounded by cold flesh that looks not unlike that of a plucked chicken. I wonder that any man can find such a display alluring as we move quickly on. An older woman—in her thirties with a toothless smile—clutches a babe to her breast. She stretches out an arm beseechingly toward us. Several more children, all of tender years, are crumbled at her side, shivering under rags.

“What is this?” I demand. “I have been generous in relief for the poor. There are places for them.”

Not as many as in my father’s time, when the churches and priories offered basic food and shelter to the neediest. “Creative destruction,” Cecil calls it, opining that out of the waste laid across this land, a greater good will arise. Yet in fairness to him, he spends his days and far too many of his nights struggling with the damage that was done when my father shattered the system that had sustained the poor for so long. I am one more result of that great rending and therefore bound by conscience to repair it.

“A matter for another time, Majesty.” Dee urges me onward.

I will confess to a great curiosity regarding the Bankside. The mayor of London and its aldermen complain incessantly that because they have no authority there, Southwark, the Clink, and Paris Gardens—to name the most colorful neighborhoods—are riotous places given over to masterless men, thieves, whoremongers, and the like. There is some truth to that, however they must be cautious in their criticism for it is my writ as queen that runs in the Bankside. I have always believed that a certain amount of liberty makes people less inclined to rebel, therefore I am prepared to tolerate it—up to a point.

Walsingham pauses for a moment to get his bearings, then leads us along the High Street. Shadows lurk near the entrances to alleys, but none bestir themselves to trouble us. We continue on until we reach an inn popular with seamen and foreign merchants, as evinced by the babble of languages that breaks over us as we step beneath the low lintel.

The floor, covered in rough paving stones, slopes downward. The interior is dark and hazy with smoke. A pair of long, rough-hewn tables set with benches fills most of the space between the walls stained with soot amid patches of dampness. I catch the pungent smell of malt mingling with that of meat pies of dubious provenance. Clusters of men, most in leather jerkins and homespun trousers, are hunched over their mugs, intent on the nine-men’s morris boards carved into the surface of the tables or on the dartboards hung on the back walls. Betting appears to be fast and serious.

Until, that is, we enter. Then all eyes swing in our direction, only to slip away as quickly. Conversation dies along with the sprightly tune a fiddler had been playing. My companions form a circle around me with Robin in the front, shielding me from scrutiny. I peer round them as best I can.

The barkeep is big, large-bellied, and ruddy-skinned with a
no-nonsense air befitting his trade. He wipes his hands on his leather apron and nods in our direction.

“You’ll be wanting the White Hart, three doors up, sirs. Fair custom there for you and the lady.”

Without so much as a blink of the eye, Walsingham shoots out a hand, grasps the man by the throat, and in a perfectly pleasant tone says, “We’ll be wanting your back room. You’ve no problem with that, have you?”

The barkeep outweighs Walsingham by several stone and tops him by half a foot. In a contest between them, the outcome should be a foregone conclusion. Moreover, we have an attentive audience. Patrons shift in their seats as one or two appear to consider involving themselves. Robin is about to intercede when I put a hand on his arm, stopping him.

I have seen the look in Walsingham’s eyes, as has the bar-keep. Cecil’s new man may appear to be a mild, thoughtful sort, but he possesses the temperament of a true fanatic—cold, implacable, and utterly without conscience. Ordinarily, I distrust such men, but I can make an exception when they are deployed in my service.

The barkeep having managed a strangled assent, Walsingham releases him, nods cordially, and leads the way toward the back. What interest we have managed to arouse evaporates like water on a hot stone. At first, we appear to be approaching a solid brick wall. Only as we near it do I see the dark curtain covering the entrance to a private room. We step through to discover far more gracious surroundings—polished tables set with comfortable, high-backed chairs such as would not be amiss in my own chambers, fresh rushes on the floor, the warm glow of beeswax candles, and—most startling of all—several alcoves containing low platforms heaped with pillows that to my eye appear garishly foreign.

“Keep your hood up,” Robin murmurs, and I see why. Several of the faces I glimpse are at least vaguely familiar. It takes me a moment to realize that members of my own court are present, as are several wealthy merchants also known to me and one or two foreign ambassadors.

Robin turns up the collar of his cape, mindful that he, too, may be recognized. Dee and Walsingham have no such concern. The latter being newly returned to my realm, he has no need of circumspection. As for Dee, no one would account it in the least strange that he appears in odd surroundings or amid dubious company.

We arrange ourselves around a table. A boy dressed entirely in black, his face schooled to blankness, approaches and inquires as to what we will have. The men order but I am distracted, watching the other occupants of the room. I can pretend no familiarity with what goes on in taverns, but in the revelry of the court there is always good cheer, whether real or manufactured. I am not accustomed to the quiet pervading this room or the strange placidity of its occupants. Surely they should be playing cards, gambling, groping barmaids, or some such? Instead they sit or lie stretched out on the pillowed platforms as though lost in dreams. I am bewildered.

The boy returns bearing a carafe of Rhenish wine, several tankards of ale, a serving of sausages, and something I have never seen before, a small, crystal vial set alone on a pewter plate. Walsingham pays, startling me with the amount of coin that changes hands. I do not pretend to know the price of everything, but I have a decent enough sense of how to run a household to realize that the outlay is extravagant.