Secret History of Elizabeth Tudor, Vampire Slayer (33 page)

“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 rolls 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.

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 White-hall—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.

“Dear Elizabeth, I knew that you would come. The bond we
share grows stronger by the hour. And now we share Dudley as well. I have him, you want him. What are we to do?”

My fists clench at my sides. It is all I can do not to strike at him. The smile I summon in turn threatens to crack my face. “What are your terms?”

He shrugs, as though the answer should be obvious. “What they have always been.”

Indeed, why should they change? He has outplayed me. Or so he thinks. Fair Fortuna favor me that I may yet prove him wrong.

“You went to such trouble to take Robin hostage. And all for what? Because you believe that I mean to refuse you?”

“You did come to the manor to slay me.” He appears more amused than concerned. His failure to take me seriously gives me hope that my plan, cobbled together in desperation, may yet have some chance of succeeding.