Secret History of Elizabeth Tudor, Vampire Slayer (5 page)

I am trying to decide how to begin when I remember that Robin is of a family of mingled Norman and Saxon blood significantly older in lineage than my own. It occurs to me suddenly that if Cecil and Dee are right, he might not be entirely ignorant of what they have revealed to me.

“Have you ever heard of a danger to my kingdom from beyond the mortal realm? One so perverse and deadly as to defy belief?”

Even as I speak, I hope that Robin will not only disavow any knowledge but will persuade me that the very idea is absurd. Cecil and Dee are mistaken, my fears are overwrought, and what I think I experienced at my mother’s grave is no more than an illusion born of too little sleep and too much worry.

Instead, Robin sighs deeply. His shoulders sag and suddenly he will not meet my eyes.

Slowly he says, “I told myself that it couldn’t be true—and that even if it is, it is all in the past and would have no effect on you. But now you seem to be saying that—”

Incredulity fills me. He knew and did not tell me? How is that possible?

“You knew? And you said nothing to me?”

“You cannot blame me for this,” he insists swiftly. “I could no more credit what I heard than you seem able to do. And I certainly did not want to give you reason for yet more dread and worry when you already are far too afflicted with both.”

“But even so, if I had been given some warning—”

“Would you have done anything differently? For that matter, what have you done? What has happened?”

Kat turns her head just then and peers in our direction.

I touch Robin’s hand in warning. “Not here. Come to me tonight.”

At once he leans closer and presses my fingers. “Beloved—” he whispers.

“To talk,” I say hastily, though my senses surge and a wave of heat washes through me. Until Robin took me into his arms for the first time, I was half-convinced that I was not as other women, being so distrustful of passion as to deny it any part in my nature. How mistaken I was—but that is a matter for another time.

At length the day I had so joyfully anticipated, only to endure so impatiently, nears its close. As I progress to Whitehall, my favorite of the royal residences, where I will remain for the full ten days of celebration following my crowning, Cecil squeezes his way through the crowd of nobles to my side.

“Majesty,” he says, “if I might have a moment—”

My head feels encircled by a band of iron, this despite that before leaving the Abbey, I replaced the heavy crown of my father with the far daintier diadem of gold studded with sapphires, rubies, and pearls that was made for my mother to wear at her own coronation. Officially, I did so for comfort, but in fact I cannot let the day pass without commemorating my mother. The more astute among my nobles recognize the diadem for what it is, a bold assertion of loyalty to her. Those whose families helped to bring about her ruin are put on notice that her daughter will be far more dangerous prey.

“Tomorrow,” I tell Cecil. “Come in the morning. We will breakfast together and speak privately.”

He deserves that for all his good counsel, but he is displeased all the same.

“There are urgent matters touching on the events of last night—,” he begins.

“No one knows that better than I, but we will accomplish nothing while I am so weary.”

When Cecil tries to press me, I gesture to my ladies, who swiftly surround me, cutting him off. Within that feminine cocoon, I go directly to my apartment, through the privy gallery, clogged by courtiers who wait in hopes that I will give them audience; past my library, wherein my beloved books await such leisure hours as I am able to wrest from duty’s demands; past my dining and dressing rooms; through the withdrawing room, which I share with my ladies; until at last, I come to my bedchamber.

A royal residence has stood beside the Thames since the time of Edward, the saintly king who built Westminster Abbey. But my father put his stamp on the palace that is now my own. Given his taste for intrigue, it should come as no surprise that the royal apartment is well equipped with discreet passages allowing for hidden comings and goings. One such passage grants the most private access to my chamber.

Knowing that Robin will soon come and eager to speak with him, I allow my ladies to strip me of my regalia, peeling away the layers until I am left in nothing at all. With my feet blessedly bare, I wiggle my toes and feel the blood return to them. When the last pin is removed from my hair and my fiery tresses fall free, I groan with pleasure. Kat laughs and rubs my scalp as one of my ladies holds my bed gown near the fire to warm it before dropping it over my head. Wrapped in a robe, I sit with my feet propped up on a stool and sip a posset. Too soon I am fighting to keep my eyes open.

“To bed, Majesty?” Kat asks. She looks as exhausted as the
rest of my ladies after the eventful day. Taking pity on them, I wave a hand.

“Off with you all. I’ll sit awhile, then retire.”

They protest that they will keep me company until I am ready to sleep, but go all the same with only a little more urging. When they are gone, I sigh in relief. Having set aside the posset, I rise to open the leaded window a crack, just enough to admit a reviving draft of cold air. I am staring out over the river, silvered by moonlight, when a faint prickling lifts the hairs on the back of my neck.

I watched the coronation from a perch in the deep shadows beneath the rafters of Westminster Abbey, my unfettered presence there further proof, if yet more was needed, that no god favors mortals over us, for surely any such deity would bar us from his holy places.

Elizabeth looked lovely, for all that she was obviously under considerable strain. She could hardly be blamed for that, given the gauntlet of scrutiny she had to walk to reach her throne. The Spanish and Portuguese were at that time rumored to have discovered in the darkest reaches of the equatorial regions cannibals who, I am certain, would not have fallen on her more ravenously than would her own nobles had they been given the slightest encouragement to do so. At least her mother, walking to the scaffold, knew she was about to die. Elizabeth could only wonder when and how the sword would fall on her.

The ceremony was interminable, saved only by the excellence of the music. The banquet afterward was the usual excess of overly rich meats, florid sauces, and a waste of good wine squandered on poor palates. The insufferable Dudley was there, of course. I marveled that she could not see him for what he was. He pretended to love her while seeking nothing other than the restoration of his traitorous family, whereas I … I confess, I was developing a tendresse for Elizabeth. The thought of her touch and scent … the smooth skin of her supple neck … and most particularly of her taste quite overwhelmed me at times. Call me foolish, but I have always believed in love.

The ever-intrusive Cecil sidled up to her as the banquet was ending. I was glad to see that she sent him on his way with short shrift. I had considered removing her Spirit but had left him alive, judging that he could be useful to me in years to come.

At length and at last, she withdrew. I watched her maids strip her of her raiment, garment by garment until at last her pale skin was revealed in all its glory. Her legs were long and tapered, the thighs sleek with muscle. The soft nest of fire between them drew my gaze. I imagined touching her, feeling her respond, feeding from her. Passion warred with amusement as I watched her wiggle her toes in the thick carpet. Still, I was not fooled. Her eyes were shadowed with fatigue. She was living on her nerves. When her ladies had gone, she opened the window and looked out toward the river. Her expression was pensive and, I thought, filled with yearning.

As was I. The time had come; I would wait no longer.

“Elizabeth,” I breathed, and sent her name as a prayer out into the night.

I turn, expecting to see Robin emerging from the hidden passage, but there is no sign of him. Nonetheless, the sensation that I am not alone grows stronger, becoming impossible to ignore. Slowly, I move toward the concealed door set in the paneled wall. At the touch of a hidden lever, the door swings open on hinges that are always kept well oiled. Beyond lies only darkness. I wait, scarcely breathing, thinking to see the flicker of light heralding Robin’s approach, but there is nothing.

I resist for several minutes as the lure grows stronger. Finally, telling myself that I am merely curious, I take a lamp from a nearby table and step into the passage. At once, I am engulfed in darkness just beyond the small circle of light in which I move. The passage leads deep within the south wing of the palace. There are, so far as I know, only three entrances—one in my own rooms, another in the apartment I have arranged to be given to Robin, and a third to be found down a flight of steps, along another, older passage that may date from the time of Edward or even earlier, and finally through an iron gate concealed behind a false wall that leads out into an ancient, walled garden near the river.

It is madness to go as I do, clad only in slippers, a nightgown, and robe. Worse yet, I am without a single guard despite the constant threat to my life from innumerable sources. Never in my wildest imaginings would I have behaved in such a way. Yet
I proceed along the passage, through the gate, and out into the winter garden.

I can smell the river—chill but dank, moving sluggishly at that late hour—vying with the pall of smoke hanging over the city. In honor of my coronation, and to induce my people to love me, a generous measure of wood and coal has been provided to every household. Even the poorest tenement dweller is warm that night, but not their queen. The cold ripples up from my feet, causing my muscles to clench. My breath frosts in the chill air. I shiver and, determined to cast off the madness that has seized me, turn to go back inside.

A shadow moves at the edge of the garden, shifting out of darkness, devoid of light, blacker than night. I stand frozen, observing it take form. Too swiftly for my mind to grasp, it resolves into the shape of a man—tall, broad-shouldered, cloaked. My throat closes, preventing me from making the slightest sound, far less a cry for help. I can only watch helplessly as he strides toward me, no sound of his footfall on the gravel path interrupting the silence. As he nears, the lamp I hold flickers and goes out.

No matter, I can still see him clearly, his pale skin luminous as the moon, radiating light. His eyes beneath sweeping brows are wide, dark, aglow with fierce intelligence. His forehead is high, his nose a straight blade leading to a chiseled mouth, his chin square and firm. Terror grips me. I hear his name in my mind but I would have known him under any circumstances—
Mordred
. Yet he fits nothing of what I have been told. This scourge of evil whose very existence violates the natural order appears to be the creation of a master sculptor intent on evoking nothing less than perfection in form and manner. He is, quite simply, the most beautiful being I have ever seen. I, poor fool, can only gape at him as he steadily closes the distance between us.

The unrelieved blackness of his garb shimmers with his inner light. He smells of wind and night, and something deeper, imbued with power that I cannot identify but which I yearn for as iron filings will lean toward a lodestone. His voice, when I hear it at last, is deep and compelling.

“Elizabeth. How glad I am that you have come to me.”

He holds out his hands, the palms turned up in invitation. A fierce need to feel his skin against mine sweeps over me. The lamp begins to slide from my fingers.

Evil.

Absurd! No such word can describe this being of vivid life and beauty, this dark prince who waits, smiling, silently bidding me to take the few steps necessary to put myself within his reach. My feet, no longer frozen, feel light as air. I have only to move the slightest distance—

An hour and more ago, my mother’s diadem was removed from my brow, tucked carefully away back into its velvet case, and returned to the lead chest where my jewels are kept. Yet just now I could swear that I feel its weight upon my head. So vivid is the sensation that I almost reach up to confirm its presence.