Secret History of Elizabeth Tudor, Vampire Slayer (22 page)

We meet in my withdrawing room—Robin, Cecil, Walsingham, and Dee, the magus appearing as though from the ether, though I suspect he has more likely been making use of the library my father assembled from the pillaged manuscripts of the churches he destroyed, which are said to contain many secrets. Whatever Dee has found there still seems to have a grip on him; he appears distant and preoccupied.

I have no interest in his esoteric meanderings. Far more practical concerns beckon.

“What have you learned?” I demand of the schoolmaster, for truly I am in no mood for pleasantries.

Nor, it seems, is he.

“The rumors regarding Southwark Manor appear to have some substance, Majesty. In addition, I believe that the record of ownership there has been obscured deliberately.”

Cecil does not hide his surprise. “You have not been able to discover who owns a manor of significance so close to the seat of government? A former possession of no less than the Archbishop of York? How is that possible?”

Walsingham sketches a small bow suggestive of apology without actually offering any. “Given the”—he pauses delicately—“the recent disorder, it is easier than it has been in centuries to transfer property without due attention to legalities. This is far from the first such case that I have seen, although, I must admit, it appears to be the most elaborate and effective.”

“Surely,” Robin says, “that is indicative of a sinister force at work, is it not?”

Before Walsingham can reply, Dee appears to awaken from whatever has so preoccupied him. He blinks owlishly and strokes the beard that I suspect he cultivates to make him appear wise beyond his years. But then perhaps he truly is so.

“You may be right, my lord. I have been making my own inquiries in my own way. It seems that there is more to Southwark Manor than may appear. The estate is extremely old. Although there are gaps in the record, large gaps as Mister Walsingham has said, I believe the lands were part of an Anglo-Roman property dating back as far as the age of Arthur.”

“What does that matter?” Cecil asks, but I scarcely hear him. I already know the answer. The manor has some significance to Mordred. Perhaps he lived there, on the opposite side of the river from the place that Morgaine called home. As in eternity she sought what was dear and familiar to her, Mordred might seek the same in this world he aspires to rule.

I reach for the cloak thrown over my chair. Instincts I have long since learned to trust urge me to action. Morgaine has shown me how I can prevail, but that knowledge will do me no good unless I am strong enough for the task. Swiftly, before
Mordred realizes what I am doing, I must find and kill the most powerful vampire possible. Where better to find my prey than among his court?

“We are going there,” I say.

Cecil looks alarmed. “Now? Is that wise?”

“It is if Her Majesty says that it is,” Robin declares. Clearly, he is determined not to be found guilty of presumption again. However, that does not stop him from having an opinion.

“On the other hand, if Her Majesty prefers, I will go alone and through cunning and subterfuge discover what is afoot there.”

Cecil snorts, but before he can comment, Dee intervenes. “With all respect, Lord Dudley, that would not be wise.”

Anger flashes across Robin’s face. His temper is formidable but the dangers and difficulties that afflicted his life from a tender age have schooled him to mask his feelings from all save me. I, alone, know his heart. Indeed, I possess it.

“Why do you say that, magus?” he asks with false calm.

“Because if the manor is indeed a nesting place for vampires, you will make a tasty snack for them.”

For a moment, I fear that Robin will erupt with rage at so great an offense to his honor. No lord of such prowess in the lists and on the field of battle could tolerate such a slight. So certain am I that he will strike at Dee that I move to insert myself between them.

I needn’t have bothered. With a visible effort of will, Robin keeps control of himself, if only just.

Through gritted teeth, he asks, “Then what do you propose, magus?”

“That we accompany Her Majesty but do not hinder her.”

I would prefer to go alone but I cannot yet contrive how to cross the Thames and make my way through Southwark without
assistance. Queen of the realm, slayer of vampires, I have never ventured of my own volition anywhere without retainers and guards. For that matter, not only have I never handled the coin needed to hire a wherryman, I have no idea where to lay my hands on it.

I could ask Walsingham, of course, but I suspect that the schoolmaster would find some way to deny me. He is ambitious, as are they all, and the best route to realized ambition is to stay as close as possible to the source of power.

“Well enough, but once we attain the manor, I will proceed alone.” Robin opens his mouth to object but I forestall him. “It is my intent to draw Mordred into a ruse of my making that will give me the strength I need to defeat him. If you interfere, my plan will fail and we will lose our best chance to drive this scourge from our realm.”

“How do you intend to accomplish this miracle?” Robin demands. His relief at being returned to my favor seems to be wearing off swiftly.

“That is my affair. If you prefer, you may remain here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

My breath catches. As a woman, I am struck by his sudden disparagement. But far more critically, as Queen I cannot possibly tolerate such presumption without risking the disrespect of all those around me. Worse yet, Robin knows this.

I step away from him, drawing myself to my full height, and bestow on him what I hope is a sufficiently regal glare. “Lord Dudley, your injury in the list is affecting you more than I realized. You have my permission to withdraw.”

He takes a step toward me, his gaze commanding mine. A pulse beats in the shadow of his jaw. Deliberately, he challenges me. “I am entirely fit, I assure you.”

I grasp my skirts tightly in both hands, the better that I may
not pummel him. His strength and will that I so enjoy in the bedchamber have no place here and now. Is this the price he wishes to exact for the pleasure he gives me? Have I been a fool to trust him?

Ice etches my response. “You are mistaken, my lord. In fact, I would say that your condition is worsening by the moment. Withdraw while you still may.”

Cecil, realizing the extent of my anger as Robin apparently is incapable of doing, grasps his arm and attempts to draw him toward the door. Under his breath, he murmurs, “Do as Her Majesty says, Lord Dudley, or it will go the worst for you.”

When a man speaks to him, Robin seems to awaken suddenly to what is happening. He pales and stammers an apology, but I ignore him. If there is to be a reckoning between us, better that it wait. In my present mood, I may do something irreparable.

Cecil urges Robin from the room and, to my satisfaction, shuts the door in his face. I imagine him standing on the other side, wondering—I hope—if this time he has truly cast himself into the outer darkness permanently. In my heart, I know that he is growing impatient to take what he believes to be his rightful place at my side. I can never permit that, but how long can I keep him suspended in a state of unfulfilled hope before I risk losing him altogether?

It is a problem for another time. Just then, I am almost glad to have Mordred to divert me. The vampire who threatens my realm seems less challenging to deal with than does the lover who demands more than I can ever give.

And so we four—Cecil, Walsingham, Dee, and I—cross the Thames bundled tightly against the chill night. I keep my head tucked down not only to avoid the wherryman’s curious glances but also because an icy rain descends on us, bringing more
misery than the deepest snow ever can. Mercifully, halfway across it stops, but the cold continues to bite bone deep as we scurry up the bankside.

This time we do not tarry near St. Savior’s but continue directly up the High Street toward Southwark Manor. As before, the area is strangely quiet. Nary a whore nor beggar is in evidence. Several of the inns and taverns we pass have their shutters drawn, although from behind them I catch glimpses of light. As we pass, a door opens and someone peers out, only to quickly retreat back inside.

The High Street climbs following the contours of the hill that rises above the river. Near the top, the bear- and bull-baiting rings lie shrouded in darkness. I hear the sleepy snuffling of the animals kept penned below them and smell the copper stink of old blood on the air.

The manor lies behind stone walls so high that only the chimneys can be seen from the road. A tall iron gate bars entrance to a wide drive lined by ancient oaks. Mullioned windows are aglow with light. Whoever dwells within keeps late hours.

I expect that the gate will be secured and that I will have to contrive some way to get through it, but when I press my hand tentatively against one side of the iron scrollwork, hinges creak. The gate swings open just wide enough to admit me.

For a moment, I hesitate but the matter is of too great import to let any personal consideration, including concern for my own safety, dictate my actions. Having come so far, I must go the whole way.

“Follow the course of the walls,” I instruct the others, “and discover whatever you can about this place, but on penalty of my greatest displeasure, do not attempt to venture within. I will meet you all back here.”

“How long do you think you will be, Majesty?” Cecil is pale with fear, but whether for himself or me, I cannot say.

“I have no way of knowing, but if I have not emerged by daylight, return to Whitehall. Do all you can to cast obscurity over my absence and deflect all rumor. I will rejoin you as swiftly as I can.”

Unspoken among us is the realization that I may not return at all, in which case it will fall to Cecil to deal as best he can with the chaos that will follow. I regret afflicting my Spirit with such a fraught task, but I can think of no man better able to carry it out should the need arise.

As though he knows the content of my mind, Dee says, “Have no fear, Majesty. The stars show clearly that your path continues on far beyond this night.”

I believe him, of course, but I also believe that nothing in what the stars reveal to us is inevitable. The destinies they blaze across the heavens come to pass through the agency of our own will. I can only pray that mine proves equal to the challenge I am about to face as I slip through the iron gate and enter the ancient grounds of Southwark Manor.

Moonlight slips through skeletal branches that arch above the drive leading to a large stone house with three wings, all built in the style popular during my father’s reign and still much in fashion. The exterior walls sweep up three stories to a gabled roof. Above the center wing, a tower rises dark against the night sky. At the very top, behind round oriel windows, I can just make out the flicker of lamps.

Clutching my cloak tightly, I proceed with as much confidence as I can muster. My steps crunch over the hard-packed snow that covers the drive, unmarred by a single footstep. An icy fog drifts in tendrils across the ground. With hindsight, my plan of going on alone appears less than well conceived. However much I do not want to be distracted by concern for Cecil, Dee, or Walsingham, I would welcome their company as I pass through shadows into silvered light, all my senses painfully alive. For that matter, I would even welcome Robin’s pretended deference as he busies himself attempting to order my life.

But I am alone, with only my mother’s and Morgaine’s courage to guide me. When an owl hoots nearby, I startle and for a moment forget to breathe. My heart hammers against my ribs. I should be cold for the night bears the sting of the north in a thousand pinpricks that assail the skin, but I am heedless of any such discomfort. Indeed, my blood runs
hot as I begin to feel the power growing nearer with each step I take.

A wide stone terrace leads to double doors of oak bound by iron. I pause, listening intently. I can make out voices, laughter, and music. Someone is playing the virginal and doing it quite well. Others are singing, their voices melding in perfect harmony.

I would be hard-pressed to say what I expected to find, but this is not it. I stand in darkness, all but pressing my nose against a window, and peer into a world of light and warmth. A fire roars in a vast hearth on the far side of the large room. Golden candelabra hanging from the ceiling glow with the light of a hundred pure white tapers. The music is clearer now; it sounds like a chorus of angels, but that is far from the greatest surprise. The beings—what else can I call them?—at home within that sumptuous chamber are the most beautiful I have ever seen. Dressed more exquisitely than the most elegant of my courtiers, they appear uniformly young and physically perfect. Male and female alike, they are quite simply stunning. Their jewels and cloth of gold, the deeply rich velvets and finely sheened silks that adorn them, are all eclipsed by their own insurmountable beauty.

I am still contemplating how this can possibly be—for surely God would not gift creatures of the dark with such unearthly loveliness without some purpose—when a faint sound alerts me that I am no longer alone. I turn swiftly, intent on defending myself, only to freeze when I behold Mordred, lounging against the wall that runs around the terrace. He wears black—velvet, I think, and a fine wool—with a splash of silk shot through with thread of silver at his throat. Despite the cold, he is without a cloak, but then I suppose he has no need, the chill becomes him so.