King Henry sat by the bed of his bastard. The chamber was dark and shadowed, the walls hung with tapestries. The careful stitches picked out in muted and glinting threads the hunts and processions that Henry knew now, the boy would never see.

King Henry closed his eyes as he breathed in the aromatic smoke from the brazier, herbs to cleanse the air and to chase away the demons that robbed his bastard of his strength. That robbed Henry of his son.

He gazed down on the wan face that lay eyes closed against the pillows…so pale, so pale. Dark blue bruises showed beneath the translucent thin lids edged with the long brown lashes of his mother, lids that twitched and trembled as the young man dreamed in his delirium.

Henry thought fondly of Elisabeth, the boy's mother, Betha he had called her, beautiful and compliant and more passionate than any other woman he had known. She had borne his bastard and was now safely married to his loyal subject Edward Clinton the first Earl of Lincoln. Queen Catherine had made it impossible to keep her at court. So often love is sacrificed to duty he thought morosely.

Henry Fitzroy, he thought, the King's by-blow to the Queen's Lady in Waiting. The King's seed had been squandered on a bastard. That was what Catherine had said, bitter at the still births of her sons. Though overall she had been kind to the boy.

Henry Fitzroy… well bastard he thought, you won most of us over readily enough!

As the afternoon wore on towards evening in the close air of the chamber Henry remembered the sturdy golden haired toddler that Betha had brought to him. He remembered how fearlessly the child had stood between his mother and the king. His cherubic features surrounded by gossamer curls and set fierce in a scowl of defense for his mother. He held in his mind the image of the dimpled pudgy knees as he had swung the child aloft, his heart treasuring the trilling childish laughter of his son…his son.

When the child was only five, Henry had raised him, making him Duke of Richmond, declaring to the world his acknowledgement of the boy as his get and granting him precedence over all other peers and even over his legitimate daughter.

In the person of that golden haired boy was the verification of Henry's virility and vitality; Betha had borne him a son who lived and thrived.

Now in the middle of June he sat at his son's bedside and watched him slip away. Henry clenched his fists in an impotent rage, was there nothing more, nothing more that he could do?

He is not long for this world the last physician had told him, as he looked up from the tourniquet above the bastard's elbow, while the king himself held the boy's fist closed. The old man then used the lancet to open the vein. They had bled him again and again but still he grew weaker.

Henry remembered the bloated leeches they had used this afternoon, his son being too weak to survive a more aggressive bloodletting. He is not long for this world they had said as they pocketed the gold piece that was their due.

He would pray to God if he thought it would help, but he knew it would not. God had deserted him and he was being punished for the mortal sin of marrying his brother's wife.

In his initial anger at God's desertion, he had driven the bleating priests from the room, and had refused to allow them to return, resisting even the bastard's whispered entreaties. In the end he had allowed the boy the solace of the gold and crystal rosary that he even now held wound round his limp fingers.

God could not or would not help Henry VIII to rescue his son from the she-demon that now pursued him.

It was the black haired temptress that had stolen his boy, stolen his heart and soul. A shimmering curtain of silken black hair framed her large dark eyes and the reddest full pouting lower lip. Her tiny waist flared outward to her ribs and her ripe full breasts swelled above the tight bonds of her gown.

The King's own cod piece had grown restrictive as his bastard had had the audacity to present the witch at court.

Handing her into her curtsy, his voice proud as he said, "Sire, may I present Lady Christina." He had held the King's eyes as he impudently retained his hold on her hand. The bastard dare lay claim, in front of his own court. He remembered the anger he felt as the hated red blush of his coloring crept up his cheeks. He would have beaten the upstart down right then and shown him that he could take whatever woman he wished, but something in the boy's proud carriage stopped this predictable reaction. The King saw himself, in his youth.

She was beneath his notice at any rate the King had told himself, the widow of some minor lord of ignoble bloodlines no doubt. Let the boy have his romp, he had thought expansively. A week perhaps two and the cow's charms would fail. He had nodded to the boy and turned away to his Lady Queen. He never saw the woman's angry frown or the following secret smile that graced her lips at his dismissal.

If he knew then what he knew now he would have cut her down where she knelt. She was a witch, a demon. She had slowly subverted his favored bastard away from him. For the first sixteen years of his life the boy had been attentive to his father's every whim, never was there a whisper of discontent.

Concerned at the evident bewitchment of the boy, the King had banished her from court. His bastard had challenged his decree, continuing to see her in secret.

Then the malaise had come upon the boy half way through his sixteenth year. He began to weaken. T'was then the King had pursued the witch in earnest. He demanded her appearance at court. She did not appear. He demanded the bastard produce her. He did not comply. His son grew more sickly with each passing week and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He had sent out his agents, his knights, his spies, he had ransacked the town and the countryside around…the witch eluded him. He set a watch on his son's chambers. Those who watched swore no one came or went, yet daily the bastard declined.

He suspected that the woman was some succubus sent from Hell; he feared that when he had scorned her in front of the court, he had made a mistake, a mistake that was now depriving him of his son.

King Henry knew that outside, the fiery sun was sinking towards the hills; he feared that Fitzroy would never see it rise again. He put his hands to his face. The king sat with his head bowed as the night bloomed.

***

Weak and shivering he opened his eyes. He was cold, so cold. Had they bled him again? They shouldn't do that, he needed all his blood for her.

The weight of the coverlet against his body was unbearable and he lifted his hand to feebly push at its edge. The face of the man seated at the edge of his bed swam into view: a round face, red hair and beard.

"Sire?" he whispered, his throat parched dry.

The face came in close, and he felt his father's hands loosening the ties of his night dress, pushing the lace aside to bare his chest. The King's voice was gruff as he said, "They wanted to use the leeches again, but I sent them away."

"Thank you," he whispered, swallowing. A frown overtook his brow, he seemed confused. His curls lay tumbled on the pillow and he shook his head fretfully from side to side. "They should not take my blood, she needs it," he mumbled.

The King's gaze sharpened. "She needs your blood?" he asked.

The boy nodded as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "She needs to feed, father. I don't want her to be hungry."

"How can she get your blood my son, she is long gone from this place?" Henry held his voice steady and reasonable though his heart had begun to beat heavily in his chest.

The bastard smiled, a small and secret smile, his eyes bright with delirium. "She comes to me father, she will come to me tonight and I will give her my blood to strengthen our bond. She will consume me, and when she is ready she will bring me to her. I will be with her. She loves me…," the boy sighed gustily.

In spite of his schism with the Mother Church, the King's hand moved to cross his breast. He rose from his place intending to call the guards, but saw a movement beneath one of the tapestries, as though the wind ruffled the heavy weave. Before the King could draw breath, the witch was in front of him and at the glance of her black eyes the words died in his throat.

Henry VIII stood stock still at her unvoiced command, his eyes gone wide and he glanced fearfully between the powerful she-demon in front of him and his son lying limp on the bed.

The boy's chin raised and lowered in a slow affirmation, "You see father, and all is as she said."

King Henry's eyes were riveted on the woman as she approached. She was pale and beautiful and deadly, like a viper poised to strike. She lowered herself in a deep and reverent curtsey before him. His eyes were drawn irresistibly to the round white swell of her breasts and cleavage. She held herself lowered for a graceful moment and when the King's gaze returned to her face, her lips bowed in a smile of pure malice. She rose upright with a rustling of her garments.

"Your… Majesty," she said in a dulcet tone, the sarcasm clear. "I am surprised to see you in attendance on your son; surely you have more pressing matters of state that require your attention? Hmmm…No?" she said tapping her index finger against her chin as she paced a slow circle around the King where he stood immobile in place, a prisoner of her power.

Henry could smell the sweet scent of jasmine as she leaned close and whispered in his ear. "He is mine, old man, mine, your pride and your joy, the blue eyed child of your loins. I will take him from you, as payment for the slight you did me. Go back to your Lady Queen old man, perhaps she will give you another," she hissed cruelly.

Henry could not look away as she dismissed him and turned to cross the room to his son's bed, her movements a provocative combination of the swish of her heavy gown and the sway of the lush hips hidden beneath.

The bastard had managed to roll himself up onto one elbow as she approached; his delirious gaze focused on her and his hungry whisper hung in the still air of the chamber. "My love…"

She bent to the side and laid a chaste kiss on his brow. "My love," she said, "let me assist you."

The King watched powerless as with one arm under his shoulders she lifted the bastard to a seated position. She drew back the coverlet with one arm while she steadied his trembling body with the other. She glanced back to the King and then bent and kissed the boy's lips lingeringly and possessively. Then she swung his legs around until he was seated on the edge of bed.

She bent her head and whispered in the bastard's ear and a smile graced his face as he inclined his head to the side.

The King watched, helplessly, as with an unnatural strength she grasped the boy at the shoulders and lifted him to his feet. She held him in front of her body with one arm across his chest. Henry could see his precious son as he stood weak unto death. His bare feet and legs pale under the crumpled and sweaty linen of the nightdress. He could see his son's chest where the front of the garment gaped open, the ties hanging long and loose. He could see the long row of dark bruises down his chest where they had used the leeches on him earlier.

The King watched his own heart beating erratically as his mind struggled vainly to will his body into action.

The witch's black eyes met the King's over the shoulder of his son. Swaying she pushed the curtain of her dark hair behind her shoulder and raised her eye brow. Then she slowly moved aside the bunched lace of the night shirt exposing the pale length of the bastard's shoulder and neck. She angled the boy's head gently to one side and his curls hung forward as he had not the strength to hold his head upright.

"I hunger, my love," she said in a sultry low tone.

The bastard, smiling, replied, "Then you must feed, my lady."

For a moment her obsidian gaze softened as she heard his words. She sighed.

"Tonight my love," she whispered, "tonight I will bring you to me, we will be together…forever." As she looked back to the King her gaze hardened once more. She drew back the full red lips and allowed her fangs to emerge, smiling seductively. She lowered her face to the boy's shoulder and he roused enough to turn his head towards her nuzzling lips. She bit down on the flesh of his neck and the bastard stiffened slightly in her grip.

The King's eyes were wide and a low moaning emerged from his throat. She would not permit him to speak. The vampyre, for Henry knew what she was now, the vampyre raised her lips away from the boy's flesh, lips stained with the same crimson liquid that ran unchecked down the pale skin of his chest. "This is the last time, he will be mine tonight."

Then she molded her lips over the bite and drank her fill. As she lowered the boy back to the bed, Henry could hear the death rattle in his labored breathing and he knew the vampyre spoke the truth. Mute tears collected in his eyes and over flowed to run down his pouched cheeks.

The vampyre leaned close to the boy and whispered urgently in his ear. The she raised him again holding his body across her lap. She picked up a lancet from the nearby table and without pause cut a long deep slice in her own flesh above her breast. Her blood welled in a swift stream, and she held the bastard's head to her, gently pressing his lips to the flow.

"Choose, my love, you must choose! Will it be life or death? Drink my love, drink of me if you wish to live."

A low moan that might have been the word NO escaped from between the King's still lips as he watched his son's throat convulse, swallowing again and again as the vampyre held him to her breast. Henry felt that his heart would burst as the vampyre stared triumphant into his eyes.

When she laid the bastard back on the pillows, he drew a long shuddering sigh and then the air whispered past his lips in a final mortal exhalation. The pained rise and fall of his breast ceased. The vampyre smiled tenderly down on the now still form and gently closed the lids over his blue eyes.

She crossed once more to the King and tapped a finger lightly against his chest. "Tears for the bastard?" she asked. She lapped at the wetness on his cheek with a delicate tongue. "You surprise me."

She glanced back at the still form on the bed. "He is mine now, mine! In three night's time he will rise, a vampyre as am I. I have taken your son, KING!"

Her smile became poisonous as she tilted her head to one side pretending to consider. "Of course I suppose you could… stake him through the heart and remove his head if you really wanted to stop me. Could you do that Henry? Could you? I'll wager that you cannot." She laid her fangs against the King's throat and though she did not bite she allowed him to feel the full measure of her power. "Consider well King," she said, "The choice is still yours."

She had been gone for more than five minutes before Henry could finally move. He crossed to the bed and fell to his knees beside his son's still form. He grasped one limp cool hand in his. The bastard was dead, and yet to the King's eyes some unhealthy glamour played about the boy's features.

Henry drew his dagger slowly from its sheath at his side. He hefted the blade in his hand. I should strike now before I can think further and spare the boy eternal damnation. He pushed aside the night shirt and placed the tip of the dagger over his son's heart, one thrust and the boy would be safe. The boy would be…the image of the golden toddler arose unbidden, his son, rushing on his stocky little legs into the King's arms, his childish laughter trilling through the echoing and empty halls of the court.

The King lay in mourning across the chill form of his son, not now, I can't do it now. I have three days.

***

The bastard was transported to the church, on a litter born by six peers of the realm. A procession of six knights went before him and nine more followed on. King Henry supported by the bastard's father-in-law, the Duke of Norfolk, followed after his son's bier, stumbling on foot and dressed in the black of mourning.

***

The Duke of Norfolk had listened to the King's ranting and knew that his Liege was lost to his grief. He had heard what the King had told him and accepted the charge that his monarch had laid upon him.

He had moved the Duke of Richmond's body in secret from the official tomb where he had been laid. He had brought him in the plain wooden coffin to the unmarked grave that was prepared.

'Norfolk' stood gazing down on the body of his son-in-law as it lay before him. Three days had made the concept of his death a reality. Mary was distraught and 'Surrey'…there were no words.

Could he do what the King had charged him with? Could he do what the King could not?

The wooden stake hung loose in his grasp, the axe to remove the bastard's head lay on the ground beside him along with the garlic cloves with which to stuff his mouth. He looked at Fitzroy's face, gentled now in the repose of death.

He could not; he would not…do this thing.

He cast aside the stake and motioned forward his servants.

"Just bury him," was his brusque order, and he turned to his horse.

As he swung into the saddle and cantered away into the night, he was followed by the dark eyes of the cloaked woman who watched from the trees.

The vampyre's red full lips curved upwards in a cruel smile.

"Now he is mine," she breathed.