Free Secret History of Elizabeth Tudor, Vampire Slayer by Lucy Weston Page A

would surely have snuffed the life from me did not I manage just then to block it with another bolt of light.
    Neither one of us moves. We stand, staring at each other, light and dark, mortal and immortal, locked in combat, until finally Mordred says, “As you will, Elizabeth. But know this—I have had a thousand years to refine my powers. You will never be a match for me; I could kill you now, if I wished. I will give you time to discover that, to realize that you truly have no choice but to give me what I want.”
    And with that he is gone, vanished into the black cloud, which disappears with him. I have no chance to think of what has happened or what it means, for at the same instant, time speeds up again, resuming its accustomed course.
    I hear and see, in quick succession, Cecil cry out and—bless that dear man—charge directly at the attacker with his head down to butt him in the chest. At the same moment, the guards, no longer mired in quicksand, surge forward to seize the villain. Various people scream, one or two ladies affect to faint, but it is all over in moments. The man is on the ground, his hands secured behind him, the knife in the grip of one of my guards.
    Everyone turns to me.
    At once, I see their bewilderment. An instant before, I was walking beside Cecil, well within range of the attacker. But now I stand several yards away near a wall of the gallery.
    I must act quickly before awkward questions can be asked.
    “What a poor fellow this is,” I declare loudly as, smiling, I come forward. “To manage his business so ineptly. I swear I could have strolled to Greenwich and back before he remembered what he was about.”
    “Majesty—,” Cecil begins but I silence him with a glance. My Spirit knows me well enough to realize that I have my reasons for making light of the situation.
    “As you say,” he declares. Gesturing to the guards, he adds, “Secure this bumbling fool that he may be questioned at the Queen’s pleasure.”
    Taking Cecil’s arm, I go on at equal volume, “I declare this must all be a farce. No doubt the poor dolt is an actor seeking attention for some group of players. Perhaps we should have them all to court. What do you think, good lords and ladies? Shall we allow them to entertain us?”
    It is all nonsense, of course, and everyone knows that, but it is the best that I can do to sow confusion about exactly what happened and why. People will know what they saw, but as the evidence of their own eyes makes no sense, they will quickly come to doubt it. With a little adroit managing, the assault on me can at the least be minimized, if not made to vanish from memory altogether, or so I hope.
    I move on down the gallery, but with each step my limbs feel weighted with lead. I am all but sagging against poor Cecil by the time we finally step inside my apartment. My ladies cluster round, unsure whether to cluck over me in distress or make light of the matter as I am doing. Kat is white with distress. Imanage a wan smile for her and wave the others aside. With my Spirit’s help, I continue into my privy chamber, where I only just manage to reach my chair before collapsing.
    “Yesterday’s festivities have left me wearier than I realized.” I have so little strength after the struggle with Mordred that I can scarcely hold up my head. This does not bode well for any future confrontations between us, but I cannot think of that just now. Indeed, I can scarcely think of anything.
    Once again, dear Cecil intervenes. “I fear Your Majesty has caught a chill.”
    Taking the hint, I sneeze. “Yes, you are right.”
    At once, Kat musters my ladies into action. She seems considerably cheered for being given something to do. A posset is prepared, a night robe warmed. Cecil is banished until I can be bustled into bed, by which time I am deploying what little energy I have left to keep sneezing while dapping at my nose in what I hope is a convincing manner.
    “The tournament—,” I say