Secret History of Elizabeth Tudor, Vampire Slayer (16 page)

He shrugs, and for just an instant I imagine that I see him as the man he was so long ago. A true prince for all that his father could not recognize it.

“Hope,” he says, and is gone on the wind and the night.

“If there is a God, hear me now!”

Not that I thought He would or even that He truly exists, for I had seen scant evidence of Him in all my years on the benighted earth. Even so, from the dark pit of my rage and despair, I called to Him.

“Elizabeth was anointed in Your name! She is Your responsibility. Shine the light of wisdom into her befuddled brain before another millennium of darkness smothers this realm.”

No answer came, nor had I expected any. The wind cut slits in the river mist. I slipped through them and flung myself skyward. My only thought was to put the world and all its ills behind me. For a time I drifted toward the sickle moon, hanging in the west. Mars and Jupiter shone brightly in near conjunction at the apex of the heavens. Ordinarily, I would have enjoyed the sight but my mind was in such turmoil that I took scant notice.

Something had to be done, but what? Certainly, I could kill Elizabeth before she became an even greater danger to me and my kind. But without her at my side I would be left to watch England fall to its mortal enemies—the Pope, the Spanish, and the like. Of course, I could wage my own war against them, but when it ended, I would likely find myself ruling over a kingdom of the dead carpeted in bones from Cornwall to Northumberland.

I had told Elizabeth that I still had hope, and I suppose that was true to at least some degree. But hope boils no peas, as the saying goes. I needed a plan.

Given that I have centuries of experience acquiring and holding power, I would say in all modesty that I have a mind given to scheming. Yet just then it was blank. No inspiration of any sort came to me. I was too stunned by Elizabeth’s rejection, and by the realization of how powerful she was becoming, to think clearly.

In search of clarity, I alit near the top of the spire that rose above old St. Paul’s. From that highest of all vantage points in the city, I looked out over slumbering London. To my left lay the Tower, quiet now that Elizabeth was no longer in residence. Briefly, I thought of Anne in her grave and of Morgaine, both still forces to be reckoned with. But Elizabeth commanded my attention. My gaze traced the path of the moon-silvered river to where it curled past the Palace of Whitehall.

Had she returned there yet? Sated temporarily on the essence of my kind, did she gloat over her victory? Or did she have the stomach to consider that in gorging so wantonly, she had put at risk the very life of her realm? Did she perhaps taste the bile of regret?

Hardly aware that I did so, I lifted off from the spire in the direction of the palace. As once I had called Elizabeth to me, now I felt called to her.

Returning upriver, I retreat into my thoughts. The events at St. Savior’s have a dreamlike quality, although perhaps they would better be likened to a nightmare. I tell myself again that I have done nothing wrong. To the contrary, it is only good and right to protect my realm from such beings. And yet—

I cannot confront my doubts any more than I can meet the eyes of my companions. Cecil, Dee, Walsingham—not a one of them looks at me directly, but I catch their anxious glances and see their tight-lipped concern.

Anger stirs in me. Walsingham aside, the other two conspired to make me what I am. Let them dare regret it now and I will have their heads on pikes adorning London Bridge.

No, I will not. My temper, ever prone to flare hotly, cools as rapidly. I have need of their wise counsel, but more than ever I also need their humanity lest I be in danger of losing my own.

More even than all that, I have the most urgent need of Robin, the touch of his hand, the sound of his voice, the simple reassurance of his presence.

Straight upon regaining the palace, I make for his chambers. Coming through the door from the private passage, I startle the servant who is keeping watch on a pallet beside the bed. At once, the man stumbles to his feet, bows hastily, and retreats into the outer room.

Robin and I are alone. My beloved lies pale and unmoving
behind the velvet bed curtains. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest assures me that he breathes.

A deep sigh escapes me as I approach him. A bruise darkens his left cheek, and beneath his eyes are shadows. He murmurs something—can it be my name?—too faintly for me to be sure. I wait, breath held, for him to speak again. When he does not, I give in to irresistible temptation and, having kicked off my pattens, slip under the covers with him.

His flesh is warm even through my clothes, which still bear the night’s chill. I lay my head on his shoulder and press my lips to his throat, feeling the pulse of his life. Hunger stirs in me, and as before thoughts of Mordred come hard upon it. I sigh deeply, glad of the exhaustion that draws me away into sleep. When I open my eyes again, I can see through the parted bed curtains the room reflected in the black squares of the window-panes. For just a moment, I catch a glimpse of movement beyond, but the impression is fleeting and I am too distracted to take note of it.

If hope has caused Mordred to spare my life, assuming that he could have taken it, what does he hope for? Mere power and the triumph of his kind, as I have assumed? Or something more?

He warns of the darkness that will sweep over England again as though he himself is not its harbinger. He claims to want to prevent it but how is that possible, for surely evil cannot negate evil?

That seems a worthy problem as much for an alchemist as for a queen. Perhaps I should ask Dee. He can explain to me how evil is transmuted into good, if any such thing is possible.

If Mordred could have killed me, surely he would have done so after I slew so many of his own. What king would suffer such a threat to endure?

One with higher aspirations than his own survival?

What is wrong with me! I am here with Robin, comforted by his nearness and content to remain where I am until the break of day expels me. What claim has Mordred on my mind?

And why can I not chase him from it?

Lying beside my beloved, giving thanks to God for the continuance of his dear life, I refuse to think any further of my undead foe. There will be time enough and more for that later. After all, what was it that Mordred said? That he had held his own kind back from feeding while he tried to reach an agreement with me? If he wants my surrender that desperately, I can be assured that he will do nothing to jeopardize it, at least not yet.

I slide my fingers down Robin’s chest, feeling the thick bandage just below his heart. Dear Lord, how close I came to losing him, this cherished friend of my childhood grown to be the man I love. He deserves far better than for me to go mooning after a demon! Yet Mordred …

No! I will not think of him. In a rage at my wayward self, I sit up in the bed and press my fists against my brow, fighting to drive him out. Yet for all my effort, the sense of him grows within me. I can almost … smell him?

Smell the night and the wind as though the air all around me is charged with his power.

As though he is near.

I leap from the bed, cross the room at a run, and throw wide the windows.

A whirl of snow dislodged from the roof immediately above falls over my outstretched arms. I see only that … and a ripple of blackness moving away across the sky.

I remain with Robin as long as I dare, lying sleepless beside him as late night yields to the creeping stealth of day. Only then do I slip off down the passage to my own chambers. Once there, I suffer myself to be bathed and dressed by my ladies. Kat eyes me with concern; I know she wants private speech with me but I contrive to avoid it. She disapproves of Robin and will tell me so … again. I have no patience for that at the moment.

Cecil, who finds some pretext to have a private word with me each morning, is not in evidence. His absence further jangles my already strained nerves.

The usual breakfast of cold meats, breads, and ale is laid out in my withdrawing room. I glance at it in passing but can find no appetite. I am not looking forward to the coming hours, crowded as they are with yet more celebrations of my coronation. Scarcely are morning prayers concluded despite the constant whispers and murmurs of my attending courtiers crammed into my ill-named “private” chapel than I progress to my audience chamber, where I am subjected to a performance of sonnets written in my honor, all flattering to be sure, if somewhat insipid. Yet I do my best to appear pleased. My intent is to encourage the arts in my realm both for my own glory and for the glory of Britannia, which are, after all, one and the same.

Directly afterward, I am feted in front of a tableau depicting me as Athena, the goddess of wisdom, defending England from
the twin forces of ignorance and sloth. Were that all I have to worry about I would have slept better the previous night. As it is, I am grateful for the stiffness of the whalebone corset beneath my buckram-lined bodice. Both help to keep my spine ramrod straight until the performance finally ends.

I am rising to leave when I spy Robin standing toward the back of the audience chamber. My first thought is relief at seeing him up and about. Hard on it comes surprise when he does not hurry forward to greet me. It is not like him to hang back.

Nor is it like him to stand with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at me.

With a quick swish of my skirts, I turn and leave the chamber. My ladies trail after me but not too closely. They have the sense to steer clear of my temper, as apparently Robin does not. And to think that I practically wept over that man scant hours ago.

My mood, already soured, does not improve when Cecil sidles up. Without meeting my eyes he murmurs, “A word, Majesty?”

I am resigned to speaking with him when suddenly a wave of nausea sweeps over me. I press a hand to my lips. The feeling ebbs quickly enough, but in its place comes a gnawing hollowness that makes me gasp. I have never felt any such sensation before—a combination of the most acute hunger and desperate urgency that drives me to do something, anything, to sate it.

Yet the mere thought of food brings another wave of sickness worse even than the first. I stagger against the wall. Cecil tries to take my arm but I shake him off.

“Away!”

The craving that has seized me is overwhelming. I struggle to breathe but there is no space in my lungs, no room in my body.
Even my heart is being crushed. Suddenly, Robin is there, his anger stripped away and replaced by concern.

I bare my teeth at him, snarling, “Do not touch me!”

The pressure of my own skin is intolerable. Frantically, I look around in search of escape only to reel back the moment the light streaming through the windows touches my eyes. I am burning! Without thought, heedless of who sees me, I run, my heavy skirts clutched in both hands.

Startled servants and courtiers alike flatten themselves along the walls of the corridor as I fly past. My hair slips from its carefully tended coif and streams behind me, a banner of fire. Faster, faster! The hunger is devouring me. I must get free!