Secret History of Elizabeth Tudor, Vampire Slayer (4 page)

My private quarters commanded the high tower above the sprawling mansion built decades past by Henry and given by his daughter Mary to the Archbishop of York, from whom I bought it. He had no idea whom he was selling to, of course, although I am not entirely sure that would have made a difference. I did, after all, pay handsomely.

My library boasted a sweeping view over the river toward the city proper. I did not expect the chamber to be unoccupied and I was not disappointed. The most faithful and ambitious of my courtiers, the Lady Blanche, stood at the windows, looking out. Her hair, dark as midnight silvered by the moon, tumbled down her back. She was garbed in white—her constant affectation—and did not turn until I entered and closed the door behind me.

In the flickering light of the lamps, her lips looked very red. Clearly, she had been feeding. Her smile was, I assumed, deliberately provocative.

“Did you try her?” she asked. “How does she taste?”

My cloak, damp with melting snow, landed on the high-backed, carved chair where I tossed it. I loosened the ruff at my throat while walking toward her. “Don’t be tiresome. You know nothing of her.”

“She is the Queen. What else is there to know?”

I had been reading Dante, always a favorite of mine. A copy of
La Divina Commedia,
the edition with Botticelli’s marvelous illustrations of Hell, lay open on a chair in front of the fire. I set it aside, poked the flames a bit, and sat down.

Always so good about anticipating my needs, Blanche brought me cognac in a crystal snifter. She perched lightly on the arm of my chair and trailed her hand down my arm.

“Is she as pretty as people say or are they merely flattering her?”

“Her father was handsome in his youth. She resembles him.”

“Not her mother?”

In fact, Elizabeth did favor Anne in the sharpness of her chin and the catlike slant of her eyes. I wondered if she knew that.

“It doesn’t matter.” The cognac burned pleasantly as I swallowed it in a single draft, then wrapped a hand around the nape of her neck and drew Blanche to me. “She could be a crone so long as she serves her purpose.”

I smelled the blood through her skin. My hunger stirred. Blanche knew nothing of my plans for Elizabeth and I saw no reason to change that. Particularly not while I still had uses for her taut, urgent body pressed against me.

When my fangs pierced her throat, she moaned faintly. The fire leapt higher, burning hotter. Tomorrow crept toward us, eclipsing all the yesterdays.

The world looks no better by morning despite sporting a bright blue sky. I rise, weary and tense, to face my ladies, all of them consumed with excitement for the coming day. As they buzz about, seeing to my toilette, I struggle to convince myself that the events of the previous night were no more than a fever dream.

But I have no fever and, worse, the pattens I wore to venture out to the chapel are still beside my bed, lying where I had kicked them off, mute evidence that what I remember truly did occur. I stare at them as I am laced into my corset and hoop-skirted farthingale. Two of the most trusted men in my service believe that my kingdom is under demonic threat. I myself experienced a strange transformation that I can still barely credit. No amount of hoping on my part changes any of that.

Inevitably, my ladies sense my distraction and, mistaking it for nerves, strive to soothe me, twittering about with urgings of small beer and conversation. With an effort, I mouth pleasantries that I am far from feeling. Kat is not fooled by them; I can tell. She directs all without ever taking her eyes from me. I know that she wants to ask what has happened and am glad that there is no opportunity for her to do so.

Finally the gown of gold and silver tissue that a dozen seamstresses have labored over for weeks is lowered over my head, the crimson velvet cape lined with ermine is placed on
my shoulders, and we are away at last. Out on the green, sparkling in morning sun, I pause to receive the cheers of the Tower guard before going out into my city across the Lion Tower drawbridge, where I am greeted by an exuberant crowd, more than a few of whom have waited since before dawn to see me.

Merchants, traders, peddlers, and goodwives line the bank-side along with, I am sure, a full measure of the thieves, whores, and actors who make up London’s hidden world. I want to think only of them, my people, but I find myself wondering if Mordred and others of his kind are lurking in the shadows even then, watching and plotting.

To distract myself, I look out over the great river that is the lifeblood of my city. Beneath the clear blue sky, the Thames is thronged with boats of every description that are, in turn, reflected in it. Anything that can float is on the water with every wherryman blessed with a full load, all eager to escort my royal barge upriver to Westminster Abbey. I step on board, taking my seat on a platform raised so that those onshore can easily see me, and give the order to set off.

The bridge looms before us, no less than twenty stone arches framed on both sides with houses and shops that teeter so high as to seem about to topple over. Between them lies the only span across which all carts, wagons, horses, and flocks coming from the south can enter London. Truly, nature and the industry of man have made my tax collectors’ duty as easy as possible.

My good people are hanging from every window to cheer me on. Banners are flying, trumpets blaring; it is a day to gladden every heart. Despite the dark shadow hovering over me, I smile and wave in good cheer. We negotiate the stone piers without incident. At high tide and with a swift current, even the wariest boatman can have his craft smashed asunder in the mill race
that forms between the bridge supports. It is a reminder that strikes me as apt for the day.

Picking up speed, we pass crowded close to the long, timbered warehouses that stand cheek by jowl, with the ships’ chandlers, seamen’s inns, and the two- and three-story houses of prosperous merchants. Behind them, narrow streets and lanes are tightly packed with squat, daub-and-wattle houses, some admittedly squalid, set among a sea of church spires. In the distance, I see the great tower of St. Paul’s and the even more splendid spire and cross of St. Mary Overie.

Musicians accompany us, playing sprightly airs, yet not even my favorite music can dispel the ominous pall that clings to me. I have looked forward to this day for so long, often fearing that I would never live to see it, yet now it has taken on a weight and meaning that I cannot still fully grasp.

Through the press of people on the royal barge, I glimpse Robin and beckon him forward. He looks very fine in a doublet of burgundy velvet with a jerkin over it of black silk and cloth of silver. His mustache and beard are finely oiled and combed. His legs, which are uniformly acknowledged to be excellent, are well turned out in black hose. He wears a short cloak, I suspect because he does not wish to conceal those fine legs, and a hat strewn with gold bangles and a jaunty feather, which he sweeps off as he approaches me.

We are of an age, Robin and I, and are both survivors of turbulent, dangerous childhoods. He understands me better than any other can. We share a love of drama and poetry, hunting and hawking. He makes me laugh, and he makes me happy. Anyone who thinks ill of that can hie off to Hades.

I smile and hold out my hand to him. He comes through the crowd, tall and limber with the grace of a natural horseman, takes my fingers, and brushes them with his lips. Without releasing
me, he steps closer. I feel the warmth of his breath as a caress against my neck as he murmurs, “You look tired. Is something wrong, Your Majesty?”

The wind lifts a curl of his black hair. He is deeply tanned, his skin drinking in the sun even in our northern clime. His brown eyes are, as almost always, irresistible to me. I fancy they are windows into his soul.

“I am … distracted,” I say, careful to keep smiling. Let the avid audience watching our every move believe we are engaged in no more than light repartee.

Joining in my masquerade, Robin laughs as though I have said something witty. Under his breath, he asks, “What has happened?”

“Not here.” My face is growing stiff for grinning. “We will speak later. Find me before the banquet.”

He nods and sweeps a bow. Loudly he says, “As Your Majesty commands.”

I turn away, dismissing him even as I promise myself that I will not have to do so much longer. Once I am anointed queen, I will be bolder in putting forward my friends and chastising my enemies. But for the moment, the habit of discretion still clings to me.

Robin withdraws, leaving me to pretend interest in the passing scene. Farther along the river, the wharves give way to manor houses surrounded by broad lawns and gardens running down to the river. The long roof of Westminster Hall and the adjacent Palace of Whitehall come into view. Finally, I spy the vast transepts and apse of the Abbey, built by blessed Saint Edward the Confessor, where, shortly now, I will be crowned.

The narrow streets from the Whitehall water steps to the Abbey are packed so tightly that I wonder how anyone can breathe, the crowd held in check by yeoman guards holding
steel-edged halberds at the ready. No one seems to mind as men, women, and children alike cheer me mightily. I smile and wave, wave and smile, all despite the apprehension that makes me stare uneasily into the crowd, wondering who might be concealed there. As I pause to accept a bouquet of flowers from a little girl who gazes at me with awe, a cloud moves over the sun, casting us all into shadow. I shiver but keep smiling, always smiling. A little farther on, I stop again to listen to a grizzled old man perform a poem recalling his witness of my father’s coronation. The sun has come out again, filling the street with silvered winter light, yet still the shadow clings to me. I thank the old man kindly and move on, passing finally beneath the entrance to the Abbey. There I pause for a moment to catch my breath and further compose myself for the ordeal ahead.

As I step inside the Abbey, lit by a thousand candles and lamps, onto a bright blue carpet that runs the length of the nave, a thousand and more pairs of eyes turn in my direction. Virtually all the peerage has crammed inside for the ancient rite by which a sovereign is consecrated. Every one of them—every duke, earl, baron, knight, and all their ladies, perhaps most particularly the ladies—scrutinize me for any sign of weakness. Were I to show the slightest hint, I have no doubt that a goodly number would turn against me at once with the rest following quickly enough.

But anyone who hopes to see evidence of failing on my part is destined for disappointment. Since tenderest childhood, I have been forced to conceal my emotions even under the most turbulent circumstances. That mask has become second nature to me, though at times it seems more prison than protection.

The high, pure voices of the boys’ choir ring out as the ancient ceremony begins. After the opening prayers, a canopy is raised over and around me to shield me from the eyes of all but
the attending prelates. I am anointed with holy oil on my hands, breast, and head. I had wondered if, at that moment, I would truly feel myself transformed. The reality is not disappointing, precisely, but my experience of the night before renders it inconsequential. Seated on my throne, I receive the symbols of my royal estate, including the ring wedding me forever to my people, the only spouse I truly want, although I will never be so impolitic as to say so. No one needs to know that the mere thought of giving any man the power of husband over me fills me with visions of the scaffold.

At long last, the royal crown of England—seven pounds of gold and gems—is placed on my head. I take my sacred oath on a Bible held aloft by William Cecil, whom I have chosen for that honor in recognition of his service to me. The assembled peerage cheers lustily amid the blare of trumpets, then one by one each lord comes to kneel at my feet and pledge himself in God’s name to be my faithful servant. Some of them may even mean it. The hard truth is that I do not doubt most of them would just as readily kneel before anyone else who they believed would preserve their power and privileges.

In the aftermath of the ceremony, a great banquet is laid out in Westminster Hall. A privy chamber has been readied to allow me a brief respite. There Robin finds me. He slides in past Kat’s frown and my ladies, who pretend to be busy chatting among themselves so that we can have a modicum of privacy.

“May I tell you how beautiful you are, Majesty?” he asks as he slips onto a stool beside me and takes my hands. “Your radiance blinds us all. As I watched the crown being put upon your head, I—”

“You cannot be both blind and watching,” I say, cutting him short. Ordinarily I enjoy flattery, but just then I have no patience for it.

With a quick glance to be sure my ladies are out of earshot, I say, “Robin, the most extraordinary thing has happened.”

His brief look of petulance at my tart response vanishes. At once he turns serious. “I knew you were troubled when I saw you on the barge. What is it?”