Queen Elizabeth is no ordinary Queen. Through her mother,
Anne Boleyn, she has inherited the power to slay vampires
handed down from their ancestress, Morgaine the great
Sorceress. On the eve of her coronation, Elizabeth's power
is awakened, and she finds herself the target of the
greatest and powerful vampire of all - Mordred, the bastard
son of King Arthur.
Despite her vows to defend England in the name of God,
Elizabeth finds herself drawn to Mordred. And Mordred,
despite knowing that Elizabeth holds the power to destroy
his kind, find himself drawn to her. What will she choose:
her country or love?
THE SECRET HISTORY OF ELIZABETH TUDOR, VAMPIRE SLAYER by
Lucy Weston is an interesting mash-up in that it combines
the story of a real-life historical figure with the vampire
genre to create a unique tale that is as whimsical as it is
intriguing.
Author Lucy Weston (a nom de plume) does a credible job of
combining fact with fiction. Written in Elizabeth's
voice, with the occasional aside from Mordred, readers will
get a feeling of being privy to the young Queen's most
intimate secrets as she struggles to rule her kingdom and
her heart as well. A lively, fast-paced book, THE SECRET
HISTORY OF ELIZABETH TUDOR, VAMPIRE SLAYER, ends with the
possibility of more stories to come -- one can only wait
and
see what the mysterious Lucy Weston has in mind for her
readers.
Revealed at last in this new
vampire saga for the ages: the true, untold story of the
"Virgin Queen" and her secret war against the Vampire King
of England. . . .
On the eve of her coronation,
Elizabeth Tudor is summoned to the tomb of her mother, Anne
Boleyn, to learn the truth about her bloodline—and her
destiny as a Slayer. Born to battle the bloodsucking fiends
who ravage the night, and sworn to defend her beloved realm
against all enemies, Elizabeth soon finds herself stalked by
the most dangerous and seductive vampire of all.
He
is Mordred, bastard son of King Arthur, who sold his soul to
destroy his father. After centuries in hiding, he has arisen
determined to claim the young Elizabeth as his Queen. Luring
her into his world of eternal night, Mordred tempts
Elizabeth with the promise of everlasting youth and beauty,
and vows to protect her from all enemies. Together, they
will rule over a golden age for vampires in which humans
will exist only to be fed upon. Horrified by his intentions,
Elizabeth embraces her powers as a Slayer even as she
realizes that the greatest danger comes from her own secret
desire to yield to Mordred . . . to bare her throat in
ecstasy and allow the vampire king to drink deeply of her
royal blood.
As told by Lucy Weston, the vampire
prey immortalized in Bram Stoker's Dracula, this
spellbinding account will capture your heart and
soul—forever.
Excerpt
Midnight, 15 January 1559
In the moonlight, the scaffold appears to be made of
bleached bones from one of the leviathans that wash up on
our shores from time to time to general alarm, for what
godly world encompasses such creatures? The platform is
raised high above the crowd of gray shadows gathered around
its base. A woman climbs slowly, carrying the weight of her
anguish and fear. She holds her hands clutched in front of
her, as though in prayer. Stepping out onto the platform,
she steps into the beast’s gaping maw and is devoured.
Sometimes the woman is my mother; other times she is I.
For most of my youth, I expected to die on that spectral
scaffold, sacrificed to the same great beast that took my
mother. That I have not met such a fate by this, my
twenty-fifth year, is no doubt due to the mercy of Almighty
God, although Doctor Dee credits my survival to the
alignment of the stars at the moment of my birth, which
suggests that my life rests on a cosmic whim.
However I came to be, I am not male. For that sin–whether
hers or mine–Anne Boleyn died. She went to her crowning
with me in her belly, through sullen crowds that called her
a witch and conjured her death. I have done somewhat
better. This day, the gray shadows spewed into the streets
of London where, imbued with the ruddy cheer of winter under
a chill blue sky, they hailed me with such vigor that for a
little time, I let myself bask in the false glow of their
approbation. Still I do not forget.
My ladies have no notion of what I see as I sit gazing out
onto Tower Green, seemingly glad to rest in the aftermath of
the tumultuous welcome into my capital. They see only the
empty moon-washed sward agleam with winter frost behind the
cheery, reflected glow of the fire that warms my bed
chamber. Pretty girls mostly of my own age, they bustle
about under Kat Ashley’s watchful eye, folding my clothes,
chatting among themselves, excited for the coming day.
As am I. Truly, I look forward to the moment when the holy
oil will touch my brow and breast, and I will be transformed
into the anointed of God, chosen by Him to rule over my
father’s kingdom. The irony does not escape me. Child of
the despised queen whose head had to be cut off to save the
king’s manhood, I have Henry’s red hair and his name. Since
Mary’s autumn death, I have his throne. Somewhere, I like
to think that my mother is laughing.
It is dark but clear with moon shadows sharpening all the
angles of the ancient White Tower–the Conqueror’s pride–that
looms over the fortress added onto by so many monarchs down
through the centuries. Nothing moves on the river beyond
save for the fast-running tide. Peering through the leaded
glass of the royal apartments set snug against the inner
curtain wall, I feel a surge of affection for ancient
London. I will have to be as a gypsy rope walker in the
years to come to have any hope of balancing between the
city’s puffed-up merchants and rapacious barons, its sullen
Catholics and fire-breathing Reformers, all amid the babble
that rises from its docks and spills over into ever-
rancorous Parliament. But I am good at balancing. I was
born with a light step and an instinct for when and how to
stretch out my arms to embrace what I need most. Nothing so
surely marks me as a changeling for neither of my parents
possessed that skill.
In my bed gown and cap, wrapped in a lace-edged wool shawl
against the dampness penetrating the old stone walls, I am
ready to slip into the high, four-poster bed curtained with
embroidered silk, stretch out beneath the ermine blanket,
and dream my queenly dreams.
There is a knock at the door.
My ladies turn as one, rapt. Do they truly believe that
Robin–the dear friend from my darkest days and, so far as I
will allow it, my secret lover–would call on the night
before my coronation? I told him not to and he has the
sense to obey me, most of the time.
But then who comes at this, the midnight hour?
A maid opens the door. Two men stand revealed. Doctor John
Dee is the younger, although he manages nonetheless to
convey an impression of great sagacity. I met him for the
first time two years before when Robin brought him to my
notice. The magus had risked his life to counsel me, having
barely survived arrest and interrogation at the order of my
sister Mary, who feared him greatly. She had reason to do so
for it was Dee who cast the horoscope that foresaw the time
of her death, an act that, had it been discovered, would
have sent him to the stake. Armed with that knowledge, I was
able to outlast the plotting of my enemies who browbeat my
sister to order my execution virtually to the moment of her
final breath. In the aftermath of Mary’s demise, it was Dee
who determined the most auspicious date for my coronation,
now scant hours away.
The magus is tall, possessed of piercing brown eyes, with a
pale beard half-way down his chest. Wisdom and gravity
adorn him as much as do his scholar’s robes. Beside him,
William Cecil looks smaller and of less consequence. That
impression is almost comically misleading. William is my
closest advisor, the man I call my ‘Spirit” and trust above
all others, who in the dark years of my sister’s reign kept
the light of hope alive in me. In his late thirties,
already burdened by gout despite his avoidance of all
excess, he is as virtuous in his private life as he is
ruthless in matters of state. Both qualities make him
invaluable to me.
“Majesty,” the two murmur in unison as they enter and
incline their heads.
“If we might speak alone,” William adds. He glances at my
ladies, who hover close together like so many bright-hued
canaries suddenly sensing the presence of a cat.
I dismiss them with a wave of my hand. They go, trailing
backward glances of concern. Before the door closes behind
them, I hear their anxious murmurs.
Only Kat remains, dear Kat, who came to me as my nurse when
I was scarcely four years old and has remained at my side
ever since save for those dark times when she suffered
imprisonment for my sake. I have said and it is true that I
received life from Anne but love from Kat. I love her in
return. Virtually my first act upon learning of Mary’s
death and my own ascension to the throne was to name her
First Lady of My Bedchamber. She takes her responsibilities
seriously, sometimes too much so.
“You, too,” I say to her but gently for she is old now, well
nigh on to seventy years, and I would not hurt her for the
world. All the same, she must recognize that I am no longer
the lonely, frightened child she cosseted. I am a woman now
and Queen.
“Majesty–” she begins.
I cut her off with a smile. “I worry for your health,
dearest, for how could I ever manage without you? Please me
and go to your rest.”
She obeys but not without a frown that creases her withered
apple face and would have shriveled men lest intent upon
their business.
“What has happened?” I ask at once when we are alone for
something grave must have to explain their presence in the
dead of night.
“We come on a matter touching on the security of the realm,”
Dee replies. “If Your Majesty would be so good as to
accompany us–” He gestures in the direction of the door.
I am, to put it plainly, dumbfounded. The procession into
London and the reception afterward for the city’s
dignitaries, each vying with all the others for my notice,
ran late. The coming day promises to be both glorious and
fraught in the extreme. By what right does anyone lay claim
not merely to my attention at such a time but that I should
actually go with them for some unnamed purpose? Even such
good servants as Dee and Cecil must needs explain
themselves.
“What matter touching on the security of the realm?” I
demand. “Do not speak in riddles but state your purpose
clearly.”
William is accustomed to my sometimes querulous nature, Dee
far less so. Both pale slightly.
“Majesty,” William says. “The threat to your realm is so
strange and sinister, so defying of all mortal reason, that
upon the advice of good Doctor Dee, it was determined that
it could only be revealed to you now.”
“The conjunction of the planets was not favorable before
this hour,” the magus endeavors to explain. “But it will
remain so for only a short time. You must come with us.”
Had I not known both men so well and had they not served me
with such devotion through perilous times, I would have
ordered them from my chamber at once. As it was, I still
seriously consider doing so.
“Please, Majesty,” Dee entreats. “Time is fleeting and
there is much to accomplish.”
Before I can reply, William lifts the heavy fur cloak I wore
earlier in the day and drapes it over my shoulders in a
gesture at once protective and insistent.
“We are your most loyal servants, Majesty,” he says simply.
“I would lay down my life for you and so would Doctor Dee.
I beg you to find it in your heart to trust us for just a
little while and I promise that all will be made clear.”
In all fairness, William has earned my forbearance, as has
Dee. Though I remain reluctant to engage in so odd an
enterprise, I acquiesce. Wrapped in the fur cloak, I
remove my silk chamber slippers and allow William to help me
don a pair of leather pattens. That done, I suffer to be
led from my rooms and down the stone corridor to the winding
steps that give out onto Tower Green.
At once, my breath freezes in the chill air but I scarcely
notice, so glorious is the sight I behold. The sky, shorn of
clouds after the leaden storms of recent days, is a riot of
stars. Orion hunts in the west but I have little time to
contemplate him before Dee draws my attention elsewhere.
“Look there, Majesty, Jupiter rises in Aquarius as Mars
does the same in Scorpio. Both augur well for your rule. As
you are the lion, so shall you command the powers of war and
wisdom throughout your long reign.”
“God willing it will be long,” William says fervently. He
is shivering already. “It may not be if Her Majesty takes a
chill.”
“Then let us go on,” I say, suddenly more cheerful in the
face of this strange adventure.
We turn in the direction of the Chapel of St. Peter ad
Vincula. When Mary held me captive in the Tower, where I
dwelled in daily expectation of my death, I was allowed to
pray only in my rooms. That suited me well enough for I had
no desire to enter the place where my mother is buried,
having been carried there directly from her execution mere
yards away and deposited in her grave with scant ceremony.
Nor is she alone. Catherine Howard, my father’s other slain
queen, lies beside her along with poor Lady Jane Grey, the
brilliant child who treacherous Northumberland tried to
foist on the realm. The Nine-Day Queen died in the same
manner as my mother and Catherine Howard, whose final
resting place she shares.
Dee must have sensed my reluctance for he touches my arm
lightly and says, “Pray forgive us, Majesty, but the signs
are unmistakable. Only in this place at this time can we
achieve what must be done.”
Having gone so far, I tell myself that it would be cowardly
to turn back. Even so, I enter the Chapel slowly and stand
for several moments staring down the short nave toward the
altar. There, just to the left near the chapel’s north
wall, is the simple flagstone slab beneath which my mother
lies. Nothing else marks her presence or that of the
others. Yet I know where she is all the same. Several
years ago, I pestered poor Kat, who surely deserves better
from me than I have ever given her, to tell me what she
knew. She complied, if reluctantly. From her, I learned
the details of my mother’s death and interment as recorded
by eyewitnesses. I have never spoken of it with anyone
else, not even Robin.
“Hurry, Majesty,” Dee says and urges me forward.
I still do not comprehend what he and William intend, yet I
obey all the same. Something about the nearness of my
mother’s grave draws me on. I walk toward it clutching the
fur robe tightly, unable to take my eyes from the cold gray
slab that holds her earthbound.
But that is absurd. My mother’s soul, which I privately
accord to be as pure as anyone’s, has long since flown to
its reward. Nothing lies beneath the slab save her mortal
remains. And yet—
“Majesty?” As though from a great distance, I hear William
speak. He sounds uncertain but that cannot be right. The
most trusted of my counselors is a man of extraordinary
competency never at a loss in any situation.
Until now. I turn and see him just behind me, pale in the
faint glow of the lamps kept burning in the Chapel all
night, some say to hold at bay the vengeful ghosts who dwell
there. By contrast, Dee seems in his element, his eyes
alight with excitement.
I turn my head again toward the grave. A faint but
unmistakable mist rises from it, illuminated by the
starlight pouring through the high windows above the altar.
Scarcely aware of what I am doing, I move closer. The mist
grows, expands, thickens until I am engulfed within it.
Oddly devoid of fear, I stand as though observing all from
outside myself, able only to marvel at what is happening.
The silence is so profound that I can hear my own measured
heartbeat. Apart from that, there is only a great hush, as
though the world beyond has ceased to exist. I can no
longer feel the floor beneath my feet; it is as though I
have become detached, floating free of earthly strictures.
The mist has a quality of warmth and softness that I would
not have expected. Additionally, I imagine that I smell
roses. Far in the back of my mind, a memory stirs. My
mother, twirling me in her arms, in a garden filled with
white and crimson blossoms.
And my father looking on, weighing us both through slitted
eyes.
I breathe and with each breath the mist enters into me,
becomes part of me, filling me. The barriers between what
is myself and what is not begin to shimmer and grow
transparent until they melt away altogether. I am the mist
and it is I. Looking down the length of my body, I discover
that I am shimmering as though lit from within by a bright,
white light. Still, I am not afraid. My mother is there
with me. I hear her speak not in words as we know them but
in the deepest recesses of my heart.
“My daughter,” Anne says, “do not fear your duty. Embrace
it that this realm may be preserved against the scourge of
evil that has come upon it.”
She speaks and my heart, so long steeled against the
cruelties of the world, cries out in yearning for her.
Without hesitation, I take the final steps and kneel beside
my mother’s grave.
How to describe what happens next when I scarcely understand
it myself? It is as though a great wall within me suddenly
cracks and the light pours through it. I am blinded and yet
I see for the very first time. See my beloved land
unfolding beneath skies across which sun and storm alike
speed in an instant. See night and day flow in quick
succession as ages pass, armies clash, and fortresses rise
and fall. See myself rising above my city, above my
realm, a Queen Regnant clothed in majesty, armed with power
unlike any I have ever glimpsed while all around a vicious,
savage enemy, red-fanged, black-winged, soars across the
moon.
I bear it so long as I can before my mind reels away to find
surcease in blessed darkness. Dee and Cecil together
catch me as I slump unconscious to the chapel floor.
*****
Drifting over the city, following the pewter ribbon of the
river, I, Mordred, king of the dark realm, came to the
ancient hill where once Gog and Magog were worshipped by
wiser folk than are to be found there now. The temples of
the old ones are buried under the timber of the Saxons,
interred in turn beneath the stones the Normans raised,
foundation for the abode of kings, the place of execution
for queens. I smelled the earth, well sated with blood. It
warmed me.
She was sitting at a tower window behind a curtain of frost
running like a web of frozen ferns across the leaded panes.
Fire-haired, pale-skinned Elizabeth, child of Anne, the one
for whom I have waited so long. I confess to a certain
excitement upon seeing her finally.
She was not conventionally beautiful, being both too slender
and too tightly strung like a fine thoroughbred mare that
resists mounting. No matter; she was everything I desired,
everything I needed. Or she might be. The coming hours
would tell the tale.
Little men with little minds would do their utmost to make
her my enemy. I, who would give her immortality if only she
had the wit to take it! I remember being human, if only
barely, as a dream that dissolves upon waking. It is a May
fly’s existence, here today, gone today. Surely, she would
recognize better when it is offered to her. If not–
Her throat was white and slim. I could just make out the
thin blue tracing of her life’s blood coursing beneath her
skin. Could feel on my tongue the hint of how she would
taste. Hunger stirred in me but I could wait, if only for a
little while.
Separated by mere inches but invisible to her, I observed
Elizabeth at my leisure, watching the steady rise and fall
of her breath beneath pippin breasts. She appeared absorbed
in her own thoughts, with no sense of me, not then, nor any
awareness that she sat, not on the edge of a throne but
perched on the hinge of fate. Swing one way and I would
open the eternal vistas of the night to her and place her by
my side in golden halls where death can never rule. Swing
the other…I would drain her to the final carmine drop and
throw regret away along with her hollowed husk.
Surely it would not come to that.
A flicker of motion on Tower Green drew my eye. Bustling in
their importance, the men of the hour hurried along with
their cloaks clutched close against winter’s chill and their
own fear. No doubt they had a plan to manage Elizabeth if
she balked but they looked anxious all the same, as well
they should for they involved themselves in matters vastly
beyond their ken. Balanced on the air, hovering over my
ancient and eternal kingdom, I watched them come. They
paused at the foot of the stairs leading to the royal
apartment to exchange a final, anxious glance.
And up they went.
I followed when they emerged again with her in tow. I
watched them enter the chapel that holds so much pain. I
witnessed all that transpired from my perch on the far side
of the high window above the altar.
That light…the roses–oh, yes, I smelled them. Dear, dead
Anne still couldn’t resist meddling, scant good it would do
her.
It was too much for my poor Elizabeth, of course. She lay
on the slate floor, hovered over by her fretful gentlemen,
so pale and still, scarcely breathing. I could restore her
with a touch but this was not the time. She had chosen her
path; now she had to follow it to me.
It was as well that the centuries had taught me patience for
I swear, were that not the case I would have claimed her
here and now. How tempting to do so beside her mother’s
grave. How exquisitely just.
They lifted her, only just managing between them despite her
being wand slim. Her head fell back against the magus’ arm,
her face turned up to the altar windows through which I
gazed. A strange yet hauntingly familiar sensation overtook
me and for a moment I saw another face, so similar, so
implacably different. Morgaine, my love. My betrayer.
Away then, from memory and shadow into night made bright by
the certainty that victory, so long awaited, would not now
be long denied.
*****
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