Secret History of Elizabeth Tudor, Vampire Slayer (8 page)

The wind had become louder as Robin spoke. It seemed to batter against the palace walls as though determined to find some chink, some weakness through which it could gain entry.

“It isn’t just a matter of being strong enough,” I say, almost to myself. Since my encounter with Mordred, my thoughts have been scattered and incoherent, but they are slowly coming together. “He has a better route to the throne now. Instead of having to kill to take it, all he has to do is wed.”

Robin pales. “He cannot think … it would be an abomination! Every lord in the land would rise up against him at the first hint of what he truly is—”

“Would they? Would they really, Robin? What if he not only promised them wealth and glory beyond any they had ever dreamt of but actually produced it? What if he laid waste to our enemies and set England above all the nations of the world, as he claims is this land’s rightful destiny? Do you truly believe that our lords—our rapacious, greedy lords who unfailingly have put their power and privileges above all else—would reject what he offered?”

Robin knows the nobility as well as I do; he cannot deny what I say. But there is far more to England than its nobles, as he reminds me.

“What of ordinary folk? Do you think for a moment that the decent men and women of this realm will bow their heads to a demon king?”

“No,” I say, for truly I did not. “They will huddle down and
pray for relief from the one person who is supposed to protect them above all others—their anointed queen. Me! And therein lies the flaw in Mordred’s plan. By God, he has misjudged me. While there is breath in my body, I never can—I never will—condemn my people to such a fate.”

I speak quietly, but with such steely certainty that I know Robin will understand. Mordred could have made his offer to my sister, Mary, but her whole life was a testament to her faith in God, preserved for good or ill through much suffering and despair. He must have realized that she would never accede to what he wanted. Had he merely been waiting for her death to bring me to the throne—the young and frightened princess through whom he thought to rule?

If so, Mordred is in for a terrible shock.

“Morgaine Le Fey’s power did not end with her,” I say. “It exists still.”

“How can you know that?” Robin asks.

I reply with far more confidence than I feel. “Because it has passed to me. I possess it now and I will not hesitate to use it.” As I speak, the memory of what I experienced the night before rushes through me. For an instant, I am kneeling again on the floor of the chapel, seeing the light pouring from me and feeling the world become at once more vivid and less real, as though I have come to glimpse a far vaster reality beyond.

Even so, my bold claim is sheer bravado. I do not know that any such power exists, much less that it is now mine alone. I have only Cecil’s and Dee’s word for the strange vision I experienced at my mother’s grave. Face-to-face with Mordred, I was helpless to resist him in any way.

That will have to change, and soon.

“What do you mean, it has passed to you?” Robin demands. He is on his feet again, staring at me.

I hold out my goblet to be refilled. The brandy gives me strength and banishes the lingering effects of my otherworldly encounter with Mordred. “Apparently, I am not only my father’s heir. I am also Morgaine Le Fey’s through my mother’s lineage.”

Startled, Robin lets the bottle linger too long. Amber liquid sloshes over the top of my glass. I lick my fingers and take a sip of courage.

“Sit down, and I will tell you all about it,” I say.

He is, after all, my dearest friend, my confidant, and—given certain necessary limitations—my lover. I would withhold nothing from him. Nothing save my heart, which has been locked away since the day my mother died. Sometimes I imagine it nestled like her diadem in a velvet chest, brought out to be displayed only on the rarest occasions before being hidden again, safe and inviolate.

Far beyond the reach of Mordred.

Grace of God, let that be so.

Robin slips away before dawn. We had lain on the bed together but chastely, spooning for comfort as we talked far into the night He had a thousand questions for me; I had few answers. At length I slept, but raggedly. Alone now, I await my ladies, harbingers of the new day, my first as anointed Queen.

They come all in a flutter, bright with excitement, restrained only by Kat’s watchful eye. She finds a moment when they are occupied to frown and whisper, “Is something amiss, my lady?”

I should have known that she would sense the change in me, this woman who knows me longest and best. But who also sees me through the eyes of maternal love, of which I take shameless advantage whenever I feel the need to mislead her.

“How could anything be other than exactly as it should be?” I answer with a smile. “It is a new day, a new reign, and I am Queen. Everything is perfect.”

She smiles in turn but her gaze remains watchful.

With relief, I dip a toe in my bath and sink into the sea of girlish conversation. Had I seen what Lady Letticia wore to the banquet? Did she imagine that color favored her? Is it true that impecunious Lord Heverton is wooing a wealthy widow from Brighton with nary a title to her name? Had the Duke of Sussex really been caught in flagrante with the sister of the Earl of Camden, with the lady refusing to display a flicker of remorse? Such are the doings of the royal court, but let them not be mistaken
for idle chatter. To the contrary, the lives of my nobles are of keen interest to me, touching as they always do on matters of loyalty.

I dress and go to meet with Cecil, as promised, my way preceded by the usual shouts of warning by my guard: “The Queen comes! The Queen comes!”

My courtiers, avid for sight of me, scatter to either side that I may pass. The ladies sink into deep curtsies as the men bow low, each managing these elegant maneuvers without ever taking their eyes from me. I acknowledge a favored few but do not slow. Let them make of my haste what they will. Perhaps they will merely think me eager to be about my queenly duties, or more likely, they will concoct a dozen and more rumors of plots, counterplots, intrigues, and the like before I have scarcely left their sight. It is a sovereign’s duty, like it or not, to provide grist for the vast gossip mill that is the royal court.

Cecil is pacing the floor in my withdrawing room, but halts abruptly as I enter and turns in my direction. His usual air of confidence is missing. He appears gray and worn. A stab of guilt darts through me, buried quickly beneath stark practicality. Cecil knows that I will always be unsparing in the demands I put on him. It is the bargain we struck years before when he offered his services on the chance that I would, despite all odds, rise to the throne and carry him also to great heights.

“Majesty,” he says, inclining his head.

I do not stand on ceremony but go to him and touch his face gently. “My poor Spirit, you are sorely used.”

For a moment, I fear that he will crumble before such unaccustomed kindness, but he rallies and even manages a faint smile.

“A poor night’s rest, nothing more. I am ready at your service, as always.”

“Well and good but sit.” I gesture to the servants, who hurry to pull out our chairs and bring dishes to the small, round table near the windows where I typically eat alone or with, at most, one or two intimates.

When I am seated, Cecil takes his chair. He waits until our cups are filled with stout and a platter of sliced beef is set before us. That, with a hearty mustard and a good white bread, makes a more than ample breakfast, in my opinion. I eat sparingly, as always, and Cecil seems too distracted to eat at all.

He takes a sip of stout, delicately pats the foam mustache from above his lips, and says, “I regret to tell you, Majesty, that the body of a young man was recovered from near the Thames this morning. He has not been identified yet, but his garb suggests that he was a member of the gentry. He bears ritual marks that Dee tells me are associated with Mordred and his kind.”

My hand freezes while spearing a slice of beef on the point of my knife. “What marks?”

“Twin piercings in the vicinity of his throat, from which apparently his life’s blood was drained.”

I drop my knife and sit back, staring at Cecil. “It is true then, they drink blood?”

He nods. “They depend on it for what they know as life. There have been other such occurrences of late. I regret to say that they are becoming more common. The conclusion appears unmistakable that the vampires are increasing both in number and boldness.”

“I can certainly vouch for the latter.”

Cecil raises a brow. “Majesty?”

Briefly, I tell him of my encounter with Mordred. Certain details I omit as irrelevant to our discussion. Cecil has no need to know of the vampire king’s otherworldly beauty or how easily I had been seduced into offering him such scant resistance. But
my Spirit does need to understand my deep concern in the face of my helplessness.

“This power you and Dee claim I have acquired was in no way evident, not for a moment. I had no sense of it at all. The plain truth is that Mordred could have killed me, had he chosen, and I would have been helpless to stop him.”

Cecil reddens as I speak, but with my final words, the color drains from his face. He places both his hands flat on the table as though to steady himself and takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Majesty … I do not know what to say. If this monster had—”

He does not have to continue. I understand all too well what would follow hard on my death. Rival factions warring for the throne—presumably including the vampires themselves—would tear the realm apart. Foreign enemies would not hesitate to take advantage of the opportunity provided by the resulting chaos. Before they were all done, my beloved land would be little more than a carcass picked clean.

“What matters,” I say quickly, “is that he did not. But before I even consider confronting him again, I must know if there is any truth to the powers that you and Dee claim I have.”

Regaining control of himself, Cecil says, “I know what we witnessed, Majesty. The radiance that surrounded you can only be termed otherworldly. I have never seen such a sight in all my life, and I cannot believe that it heralded anything less than a momentous transformation.”

Would that I shared his confidence, but until I have real evidence that he and the magus are right, I nurture grave doubts about my ability to deal with Mordred. That worry hangs over me as Cecil and I conclude our breakfast and he accompanies me to the presentation room, where I am scheduled to receive various foreign ambassadors.

I enter to the blare of trumpets, which even for so newly minted a queen as me sound oddly natural to my ears. How closely they all crowd round, my courtiers, foreign visitors, and the like. How avidly they watch me. The foreigners take my measure for their masters, to whom no doubt they will send reports on the next tide. But what I must manage most adroitly is the assessment of my own people, for my success as queen will rest as much on their trust and faith as on my will.

Sunlight streaming through the high windows gilds the oak paneling. I glance up at the banners hanging from the iron braces set all around the room. Some frayed and faded, others still fresh, they are the bold reminders of the struggles my ancestors waged to claim and hold the throne that is now my own. I look from that proud lineage to the avid crowd so gloriously arrayed and muster a bold smile.

“Good lords and ladies,” I say, “you are all welcome here. It is my duty but also my delight to receive you. We stand together at the beginning of a new age, on the cusp of a new world, and I say to you all that England shall play the noblest part in shaping what is to come. We are a nation and a people who have never shied from accepting the sternest challenges, and under my rule so shall we remain. Let the world know that this realm is and will always be free, strong, indomitable, and, above all, English!”

My nobles cheer heartily for they have a sensible fear of foreign entanglements. Too well they remember how the Spanish strutted through court while Mary ruled and how more than one Spaniard cast covetous eyes on English lands. So, too, they remember when the writ of Rome held sway over this land. Some no doubt miss that, but the clear-eyed, ambitious men and women of my court know which side of their bread holds the butter. They will not fail me, nor I them.

As for the foreign ambassadors, I see their sober gazes and understand that my words will resonate in their masters’ ears. I have thrown down a gauntlet, daring any to defy my rule and England’s freedom together. In time, some enemy or another will pick it up. But for the moment, frowns give way quickly to professional smiles and practiced congratulations.

Then there are the gifts, presented with flowery protestations of respect and friendship on behalf of monarchs I am quite certain bear me neither. Even so, gold, pearls, fine silks, and exotic porcelains will always find a home with me. I make a pretty speech thanking each ambassador and send them all on their ways having committed myself to precisely nothing. And I manage all that despite my mind being constantly on Mordred and the danger he presents.