Secret History of Elizabeth Tudor, Vampire Slayer (25 page)

“They are thralls, not monks, and they are servants, although I suppose it is also possible that they stand watch.”

“Are they vampires?” Cecil asks.

“I do not believe so. At least, they appear nothing like Mordred’s court, who are all young, beautiful, and gloriously garbed. I think the thralls must be something else entirely.”

“And Mordred himself,” Dee asks, “he saw nothing suspicious in your coming to him as you did?”

“He saw what he wants to see, and that suits me for now. I have led him to believe that I am inclined to accept his proposition.”

“Majesty!” Cecil protests. “Is that wise?”

I step in a clump of snow and grimace. “It is essential if I am to prevail. But enough, I am weary and I must think. Give me the gift of your silence until we have regained the palace.”

They obey, of course, but clearly with difficulty. Cecil scowls as we take our seats in the wherry; Dee fidgets; only Walsingham appears unconcerned, but I see him looking back toward the High Street and catch the calculation in his gaze. He is trying to determine what I have in mind.

He is not alone. Barely do I regain my chambers than Kat is upon me. I find her sitting in the chair by the hearth when I come through the passage door.

“There you are,” she says. “It’s worried sick I’ve been.”

This is blunt talk for Kat, who has treated me with deference ever since I was old enough to understand what that is. Nor is she finished.

Having risen from the chair and smoothed her skirts, she approaches me with a look that I have not seen since I ripped up a rosebush at Hatfield when I was eight years old.

“What are you thinking of, going off in the middle of the night yet again? Do you truly believe that no one notices what you are
about? You disappear with Dudley, whisper has it, to no less than the Tower. Next we know he has his tail between his legs again and you’re off to who knows where? My dear child, how long do you think you can keep this up before it crashes down around you?”

“I am not your child.”

How cruel I am to speak such words to the woman who raised me, protected me, and loved me all my life. What darkness dwells in me that I can do such a horrible thing?

She flinches, and for a moment I see the sheen of tears in her eyes. But Kat Ashley is made of sterner stuffer than even I can dent. She squares her shoulders and stares me down.

“No, you are not, but that changes nothing of what I have said. As you seem ill-disposed to have a care for your own well-being, I have no choice but to do so. Where have you been?”

In the realm of the vampires, sipping wine, playing the lute, and doing my utmost to ignore the temptations that Mordred presents.

“About the business of being queen. What else would you have me do?”

She reaches out to me, catching both my hands in hers as though she would draw me back from the brink of terrible danger.

“I beseech you, Elizabeth, share at least a little of the burden you carry. Tell me what message your mother sent to you from beyond the grave and what it drives you to do.”

“She—” I fumble for words and find none. The strength goes from my legs. I am suddenly almost unbearably weary.

Kat helps me to a chair, fussing over me as she sets my feet on a stool, lays a blanket over me, and pokes up the fire. She leaves the poker in it to heat while she lights more lamps, then returns to plunge the hot metal into a cup of cider. When it is warm, she places it in my hands and urges me to drink.

“When did you eat last?”

I swallow and wipe my hand across my mouth, heedless of decorum. “Whenever the last banquet was.”

“You never eat enough at those things. I will send for food.”

She turns to go but I seize her hand. “Don’t leave me. I have so much to tell you.”

Kat hesitates, but after a moment she nods and pulls up a stool beside me. Still holding my hand, she says, “Begin where you will, my dear, but leave nothing out. I would know it all.”

I speak for I do not know how long. I tell her of my awakening as a vampire slayer beside my mother’s grave, of the contents of Anne’s letter, of the visit to the Tower chapel and my encounter with Morgaine, of what I saw at Southwark Manor. I mention Mordred’s claim to have tried to save my mother and to have protected me, but do not dwell on either. Lastly, I tell her what he wants of me.

She is pale long before I finish, her mouth taut. Silence settles over us when I am done. Slowly she speaks, “Truly, the world is stranger than we can know.”

A faint laugh escapes me. Her plain good sense and honesty are exactly what I need. “Wiser words were never spoken. But now you understand what I am facing. I have a plan that I believe will enable me to stop Mordred. But I fear that my will may not be equal to the temptation he presents.”

I would make that admission to no one in the world save Kat and the moment I do make it, a great weight seems to lift from me. I slip from my chair, kneel before her, and lay my head in her lap.

“My mother had the courage to die rather than yield to him. How can I do less?”

Kat strokes my hair gently. “What makes you think that you will? Of course he tempts you, how could he not? From what you have said, he offers you eternal youth and more, safety for yourself and this realm. How many do you suppose would have the strength to refuse that?”

Glancing up, I meet her eyes. “Do you think that I should?”

I half expect Kat to express shock that I would ask such a question for I know her to be a godly woman. But she is also a woman of keen intelligence who, despite her musings on the strangeness of the world just now, has rarely if ever been surprised by it.

“You stand to gain a great deal,” she says. “But from what this Morgaine person has said, the price could be very high.”

“Humanity will be extinguished. That is what she believes.”

Kat nods. “Of course, she could be wrong.”

If only she were, but I cannot believe that. “I have seen the laudanum users; they are drained of all spirit and will, mere shells of men. Mordred intends to create more vampires, who, of course, will need to feed in order to sustain their lives. He claims this will be a small price for the benefits he will bring to humanity, but I do not believe him. Far better souls than mine have resisted him. And why would they if what he says is true? His own experience of being human is so far in the past that he likely can scarcely recall it. He has forgotten how fragile and precious humankind really is.”

“And you cannot convince him to see the matter differently?”

“After a thousand years spent seeking the same goal, what chance have I to change his mind? I can accede to his demands or I can destroy him. Those are my only choices.”

“I am glad to hear you say it, but I wasn’t actually thinking of all of humanity. It is your own soul that concerns me.”

I straighten up, forcing myself to rise and walk a little distance away. Standing before the window, gazing out at the winter night, I struggle to express what lies heaviest in my heart. “My mother’s faith was firm. I am not certain that the same can be said of my own.”

There, I have admitted it. I rule in the name of the one, true God—who I believe to the depth and breadth of my soul does exist—but about whom I have so many questions that some might well judge me a heretic.

Kat comes to stand beside me. She puts an arm around my shoulders and hugs me with strength that belies her age.

“You will find your own source of courage and you will do what is right. Of that, I have no doubt.”

I turn away, hoping that she does not see my tears but suspecting otherwise. Treacherous yearnings rise up in me. At this moment when I need my greatest strength to resist what Mordred offers, I am dangerously weak.

“But there are times,” Kat says, “when we all need to be reminded of why life—human life—is worth fighting for.” She looks at me directly. “There is no shame in wanting that.”

I do not understand her at first. Only when she continues to stare at me as though she can will my poor, sluggish brain to work do I grasp her meaning.

“Oh …”

“Go to your Robin, love. Take from him whatever it is you need in order to accomplish what you must.”

How tempted I am! And not only because of carnal urges. The moment I allow myself to contemplate finally and completely being with Robin, I realize how desperately I need the comfort of human love to protect me from the lure of Mordred’s darkness. Yet still I hesitate.

“You have always made your disapproval clear—”

“Because he is a danger to you, my chick, you know that. But right now you face a greater danger. How fortunate for him.”

The sharp edge of her tongue makes me smile. I hug her tightly. She goes with a tender backward glance over her shoulder and a warning.

“Be certain that you are back here before dawn. Your ladies rise early. I cannot hold them off very long.”

I promise her most fervently that I will be just where I am supposed to be before the first faint finger of dawn edges above the horizon.

The door closes behind her but the warmth of her smile lingers.

I hurry about the task of removing my clothes, which I almost never do for myself. Finally, I accept that tearing at the silk laces down my back will accomplish nothing and look around frantically for a pair of scissors, finally finding one in a sewing box one of my ladies has left in a corner of the room. Straining with both arms, I snip the laces and breathe a great sigh of relief when they fall away. Moments later, my corset and petticoats follow. I strip off my shift, bathe in water that I scarcely notice is cold, and put my night shift on. Wrapped in my robe, I slip through the door to the passage and hurry toward Robin’s rooms.

Robin is lying in bed, his arms folded behind his head, when I come through the passage door. He is not asleep. His eyes flick to me but otherwise he does not react. I am left to approach the bed where I stand, gazing down at him.

“Are you very angry at me, Robin, love?”

He is silent long enough for me to wonder if he truly means not to answer, and how I will deal with such defiance. Finally
he says, “I can never be angry at you, Elizabeth. You are my love.”

The thought flits through my mind that he knows why I am here. Or at least he senses the possibility on some primal level that spurs his response. I do not care. Robin loves me. I have always known it and am a fool to ever think otherwise. The truth is that I take advantage of his love in a thousand shameless ways.

“I wonder sometimes how you can love me. We both know that I can be horrid.”

He laughs and sits up farther in the bed, lifting the covers beside him in silent invitation. “It is true, you can be.”

I feign of look of shock at his agreement and he laughs again. “But at your worst, you are always Elizabeth and I would not have you catch a chill. Get in.”

I comply with as much grace as I can muster. Inwardly, I am trembling but I try my best not to let my beloved see that. Not until he takes me in his arms, his hands stroking all along the length of me as he eases my night shift up and over my head do I lean close to him and whisper against his neck.

“Do you still have those French gloves?”

At once he stiffens. Propping himself up on an elbow, he stares down at me. “Do you mean… ?”

I am struck by embarrassment, ridiculous under the circumstances. “Yes, those. If you still have them—”

“I may … Yes, I do.” He scrambles from the bed. I lean back against the pillows and watch him. Robin has a fear of the dark, but no one knows of it save for myself and his most trusted servants. Candles are always lit in his chambers. By their light, his back and flanks appear sleek and burnished. I give myself up to the simple pleasure of admiring his body as he throws open one chest and then another, searching until he finally raises a hand triumphant.

“Here they are!”

He returns to the bed and we spend a few moments examining what he has brought. I am almost overcome by self-consciousness, but my curiosity gets the better of me. Truly, the lengths of sheep intestines folded over and stitched meticulously tight at one end while threaded through with a silk tie at the other appear ingenious.