Elizabeth Tudor- Ancestry of Sorcery Read online

  Elizabeth Tudor

  Elizabeth Tudor: Ancestry of Sorcery

  Copyright ©2016 – Theresa Pocock

  All Rights Reserved

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  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserve above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without prior written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

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  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales is entirely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  The publisher does not have control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party web sites.

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  Managing editor – Erica Mills

  Associate Editor – Wendy Herman

  Interior Formatting – FireDrake Designs www.firedrakedesigns.com

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  A Big Network World Book Published by Big World Network

  363 E. Woodlake Dr. | 232 | Salt Lake City, UT | 84107 |

  www.bigworldnetwork.com

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  First U.S. Edition: August 2016 Printed in the United States of America

  Second U.S. Edition: August 2018 Printed in the United States of America

  For those who have supported me.

  You know who you are.

  Thank you for helping me be brave.

  Theresa

  I wonder, now that I am dying and am able to look back upon what I have done, if at times I did what I should? Did I choose evil more than good? I guess I shall know when I stand at the judgement bar of God.

  From Fillios da Mente e da Lúa

  Contents

  Discovery

  Episode 1

  Episode 2

  Episode 3

  Episode 4

  Episode 5

  Episode 6

  Episode 7

  Episode 8

  Episode 9

  Episode 10

  Episode 11

  Episode 12

  Of Moon and Mind

  Episode 1

  Episode 2

  Episode 3

  Episode 4

  Episode 5

  Episode 6

  Episode 7

  Episode 8

  Episode 9

  Episode 10

  Episode 11

  Episode 12

  Season of Temptation

  Episode 1

  Episode 2

  Episode 3

  Episode 4

  Episode 5

  Episode 6

  Episode 7

  Episode 8

  Episode 9

  Episode 10

  Episode 11

  Episode 12

  Discovery

  Episode 1

  January 1536

  Hatfield House, Hertfordshire

  Lightning flashed and thunder clapped, illuminating the stone hall and sending vibrations strong enough to nearly shatter the glass panes. Those fragile frames rattled as they stood between Anne and her comeuppance. Rather shoddy defenses, unfortunately. The dark tempest outside was like a herald, and there was nothing, despite all her talent, that she could do to silence it now.

  As she hurried away from the wailing of rain and wind, her body ached. It rebelled against her wishes, and the pain of that rebellion hunching her over. She closed her eyes to fight back the sting and immediately saw the face of her lifeless son behind her lids. His motionless body had come from inside her less than a week before, and the sadness, pain, and fear that surrounded the event clawed at her focus.

  Henry would kill her for the death of his son, and he would do it soon. She absentmindedly lifted her ringed fingers to her small, pale neck. When it started throbbing—she realized that she was desperately caressing herself—she forced the hand slowly down, and sped up her flight.

  Lightning again broke the darkness that surrounded her. The thunder that immediately followed sent a jolt through her body that made the small hairs on her neck and arms stand up. It refocused her and she whispered, as if to the night sky, “I know, I know!” Her legs moved as swiftly as her sore body, and the decorum expected from a queen of England, would allow. Urgency drove her to consider lifting her skirts and running, but years of prudence forced the thought from her mind.

  The storm was silent for a moment. As if by the power of her renewed vigor, nature’s rage was temporarily quailed. In that silence, Anne heard only the clicking of her leather-soled riding boots on the hard granite stones and the swish of her silk skirts. Finally, she rounded a corner that would thankfully take her away from the windows and into the candlelit interior of Hatfield.

  A door up ahead opened, and Anne instantly slowed her pace and calmed her features. It was only a servant who exited the door. He bowed very low as she passed, likely wondering why the queen was not at Hampton, still in her birthing bed. Feeling the servant’s presence following her forced her to continue her measured speed. The slowness infuriated her, so she closed her eyes and felt the pull of the moon. It was already in the right spot in the heavens and, if she did not hurry, she would miss her one and only opportunity.

  Concentrating, she took the power that lay in her mind and pulled it around her like a thick, shining blanket of brightness. Instantly the glow of moonlight surrounded her. She normally did not have to think about the process. It was instinctual after so many years. However, at this moment, she carefully savored every detail of what she did. This would be the last time she would ever use her power. Of course, the servant would not be able to see it in all its celestial glory. Only Anne could see the beautiful gift God had given to her.

  With the power caressing her skin and the light blending with the strength of her mind, she wrapped the thought of the servant’s face with the desire for something basic, something that would shift his focus from her. Then she directed the power she held in her mind at him as she whispered, “Quickly! You need to find a privy!”

  She closed her eyes and willed the small orb of light to leave her and go to the man, then released the power. Her skin instantly felt cold and her steps heavy. Knowing that the orb would only take a moment to have its way with the man’s mind, she lifted her skirts and began to run just as his steps behind her quickened and turned down another hallway.

  She took the first corner slowly, but then scrambled up the steps that lay before her. The door she was heading for was not far now. Finally, the candlelight revealed the tall, thick wood that separated her from her only living child—from Elizabeth.

  Without pausing, she forcefully pushed the door aside and entered the quiet chamber where her three-year-old daughter slept. Hoping not to wake the nursemaid, Lady Bryan, Anne hastened across the floor and pulled back the bed curtains and blankets. Gently, she gathered up Elizabeth’s small body and stepped back to the door.

  Eventually she wound around enough corners to bring her to a window facing the moon. Anne’s black eyes glanced hopefully to the round light in the sky, surrounded by stormy clouds. As she looked down at her child, she was surprised to see Elizabeth’s dark eyes staring back at her.

  “Mama,” Elizabeth said with a quiet voice, and Anne smiled and embraced her, emotions finally overflowing. Her cheeks were soaked before she realized she was crying. As she squeezed Elizabeth to her chest, she did not
hold back a single tear.

  Suddenly, thunder clapped, and Anne’s eyes shot angrily to the night sky, but then she pulled back and looked into her child’s face. Ever obedient to her will, the moonlight encircled both her and Elizabeth.

  “We have only moments, my love. This is not the way I would have liked to give you the most valuable gift I have to offer, but I fear this will be the last chance I have.” Anne pressed her forehead to her daughter’s, and, in a shaky voice, whispered the words she had never uttered aloud, but knew as well as she knew she was the Queen of England. “I willingly pass to thee, my chosen daughter, that gift which my mother gave to me and her mother gave to her. By the power of the moon and the mind, let it be given.”

  Just then, lightning choked the light of the moon out of discernment. The momentary light plunged them both into a deep darkness and allowed Anne to notice a glow coming from deep within her chest. There in the dark, cold, stormy night, the power that had been with Anne as long as she could remember—in her thoughts, radiating throughout her body—that power departed. It revealed itself as a small glowing orb, which parted Anne’s lips as it left and entered Elizabeth’s mouth in the same manner. Anne found herself wondering during this transfer what this small mystical sphere could be, but she felt its absence as soon as it was gone and was distracted by the void.

  Elizabeth’s eyes lit as the gift entered her mind. Anne knew the small child instantly felt the pull of the moon, for her head moved toward the heavenly yellow object which, as Anne saw now, was almost completely covered in clouds. She could no longer feel its eminence in her mind and panic struck, for she knew that not having the power would assure her fate.

  September 1542

  Royal Hunting Lodge, Pyrgo Park

  “The fact that your mother truly was a whore should not have any bearing on whether you are restored to the succession, Elizabeth. Father has made it clear that he considers all of our mothers whores.” Mary gave an unceremonious snort before continuing. “Whores he can dispose of at his royal whim, so it makes sense that he would treat his children similarly.”

  Her resonant voice filled the small, finely furnished chamber where we lounged, waiting for our father, King Henry VIII of England, and his escort to arrive.

  “You are fortunate that he is even willing to see you today after how dreadfully disrespectful you have been in the past.” Mary refined her snort to a sniff and smoothed her hair. “I certainly would make you grovel for a few more years.” She paused again and turned to look at me with a tight smile. Flipping her hand nonchalantly, she moved toward the window.

  “Never mind. None of this matters. It is only formality. Father’s health is such that Edward is going to rule us all soon enough. You will see. All this ceremony is a result of father’s pathetic and guilt-ridden attitude in his old age—though I know I would not feel bad for chopping your mother’s head off.” Mary lifted her nose hotly and said, in an even more insultingly pious tone, “She did commit adultery and treason.” At this point Mary stopped trying to be pleasant and said under her breath, but quite loud enough for me to hear, “Besides, Anne Boleyn was a sorceress. If her treachery toward my mother was not reason enough for death, sorcery certainly was.”

  She ran her hand in the sign of the cross from her forehead down her chest, and then from shoulder to shoulder. Softly she kissed her thumb, closed her eyes, and muttered silently to herself. She was probably reciting a prayer for having said the words “whore” and “sorceress” in the same speech.

  I watched her lips stop and her eyes open, but I could not stop glaring at her and was thankful when she turned her tightly knotted black head of hair away from me, so I wasn’t caught. She was waiting for me to pounce on her as I had the last time we met, and though anger did fill me, I kept my mouth shut and let my eyes say the words she would never hear, for I was resolved to be on my absolute best behavior.

  This very day I would see my father for the first time in two years. I shivered as I thought of how at the age of six I had not understood what had happened to my mother and made a horribly foolish comment to my father about his right to kill innocent mothers as he saw fit. I had been paying for those hasty, naive words ever since, so I would let nothing spoil the joy I felt at this gesture of rehabilitation. I secretly hoped that if I pleased him, my expulsion would end completely.

  Moreover, I could not take offence at what Mary, or anyone else for that matter, said about my mother. I had not known her. I was three when father had her killed. I would not cling to the remembrance of a woman who I felt almost nothing for, a woman I could never understand. These thoughts brought a tightness to my stomach, but I ignored it. I would not chain myself, as Mary had done, to the memory of someone who had displeased my father. He was the one parent I did know, or rather knew of. He was the greatest man in the whole country. He was the King. He was Henry VIII. The warrior, the diplomat, the conqueror, the beloved sovereign of all he served, and the head of the Church of England. He was a god made into man, sent to rule and reign on earth for the benefit of all. My heart beat excitedly as the thought of seeing this grand man again filled my imagination.

  There was a knock at the door and Kat entered, her homely face flushed with excitement. “Lady Elizabeth, your father is arriving, and if you step to the window you will be able to see him.”

  I quickly jumped out of my plush chair and raced to the nearest window. The man I saw coming through the trees, seated on an enormous horse, did seem more god than human. From the crown on his full head of strawberry-blond hair to his booted foot so skillfully laced, he epitomized royalty. The sun flashed in strobe through the mighty English wood and gleamed off his head, making his hair and beard appear as if they were made of gold. It also sent the many jewels and metals adorning him a-sparkling. All of this only added to the gloriousness of the man himself.

  I continued to stare as men surrounded my father and began to lift him off his horse. I could see their faces turning red with exertion and it shocked me greatly that a man of such fabled skill on a horse would need help down. However, once he was on the ground and I was able to compare him with the men that stood by his side, it was obvious that my father was massive, and his great bulk surprised me. He teetered back and forth as he walked, favoring one leg. I did not want to admit it to myself, but the sight did spoil my impression of him a little.

  Mary was by my side and had witnessed the aid rendered to father, so when she spoke it was with a sneer. “He has become so fat that he cannot dismount without help. It is pathetic! My mother would never have let him endanger his health by eating with no moderation.”

  I had had enough of her ridicule of my King, and though I was but eight and she sixteen years my senior, I said in a tight voice, “Would it do you harm to keep your opinions to yourself, Sister? He is our King and our father, and we must pay him the respect he deserves, whether in his presence or out of it.” I looked at her hotly before moving away from the window to resume my assigned reading of Chaucer.

  We waited for nearly two days before father summoned us to come to him.

  Since my father had removed me from the succession, any communication to me would seem to indicate his willingness to reconcile with me, but I did not want this visit to be about that. Of course, that possibility was motivating, but it was not my main motivation. I was eight years old and I hardly remembered my father. I knew everything I could possibly know about him, yet little of my knowledge was firsthand. I longed to be in the presence of the man the whole world revered.

  As Kat and Blanche dressed me in my new blue gown, I contemplated again how I might endear myself to him. It would be no simple task, especially with the cold, black shadow of Mary lurking beside me, ridiculing my every action. I needed my father to see that all the training he had made possible was producing a well turned out lady, and that Kat was keeping me well-informed, well-rounded, and cultured. I knew that Kat had always considered me bright, and I knew that I was always able to tell more
about a person or situation than what was said with words, but I wanted him to see more than that. I wanted him to see me. And I wanted him to see himself in me, for I looked more like him than anyone else, and I felt wild and adventurous like him.

  But I think more than all of this, I wanted him to love me.

  As I realized this, my hands began to tremble. From what I had read and what I knew of people, the fact that I needed his love put my heart at my father’s mercy, and I knew that father had not treated many hearts he’d owned with kindness.

  Still, every part of my body and soul wanted it.

  It was a dinner fit for the king who attended. Father had spent much of the previous day hunting and had luckily taken down a glorious seventeen-point buck, which had been seasoned and prepared and now roasted on the spit in the hall where we sat. Mary sat in her black high-necked gown with covered head, and I in lace over blue silk. The King wore a magnificent royal red doublet of crushed velvet with thick gold chains, deep blue leggings, and codpiece.

  Though father had come with a party of ten other men, none of them joined us for dinner. Father, Mary, and I were the only attendees. Father started the conversation as soon as the first course was set. “Ladies, tell your father how your journey was.”