A Conspiracy of Vampires

By Izen Lumak

The year is 1536, and England's most notorious king is dying

Henry VIII, life leaking from his broken body, has a choice:
Die, leaving the country he loves at risk of bloody civil war once more in the absence of a strong leader
or
Sacrifice his soul to stave off inevitable death, preserving the fragile peace of England until Elizabeth is old enough to take her father's crown but condemning himself to a tormented existence, far from the God he has served his whole life

Stepping into the unholy darkness, Henry discovers a dangerous supernatural world that has been turning around him for his entire reign.

But there's no going back now- Henry must learn to survive in this new immortal body, or fall victim to enemies he never knew he had...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Izen Lumak
• Release date: Oct 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370117284

Izen Lumak

Izen Lumak lives in deepest, darkest Derbyshire and has a fondness for arbitrary alliteration. She has been making things up from an early age, but has only recently taken to writing down the products of her overactive imagination.‘A Conspiracy of Vampires’ is Izen’s first novel, but more implausible historical books are planned, as it turns out taking perfectly sensible history and adding a load of ridiculous stuff is a lot of fun

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Disclaimer

Whilst many of the characters and events detailed in this book have their basis in historical fact, quite a lot of this story is made up. Some of the dates are accurate but others might not be, or things might have been changed to make the story flow better, or missed out entirely if they weren't relevant to this particular narrative. If you're looking for an accurate source about Henry VIII, this isn't it; though I have tried to keep it as accurate as possible, simply because it really annoys me when I read historical fiction novels with obvious errors scattered throughout.

However, the main point I'd like to address is that I'm not really suggesting vampires and werewolves roamed Europe in the 16th Century, or at any other point for that matter. I have no evidence of this, and to my knowledge neither does anyone else (though if you do, you should probably take it to a museum or historian or something...). You'd hope I wouldn't need to point this out, but you know I'll get emails asking me to cite my sources if I don't put some form of disclaimer in. I'm expecting a few anyway, because there's always someone who doesn't bother to read these things- but you're obviously not them, so thank you for taking the time to actually read this disclaimer.

Basically, what I'm trying to say is that I found some dates and events from a historical period I'm interested in, and added some vampires into the mix to see what happened. This is the result. Don't take it too seriously.

Prologue

Conspiracy theories fail for one simple reason:

Fact without proof is fiction.

There are as many false tales, spun from fragments of supposition, coincidence, and plain untruths, as there are factual books on many subjects. Most are so ridiculous it baffles me that any sensible human being could possibly entertain the idea.

As a serious academic, I pride myself in disbelieving the conspiracy theories frequently spouted by amateurs who have a pet theory and will twist any genuine fact in order to 'prove' it. I could list any number of such stories, but I will refrain; calling attention to the credulity of others is not my intention for this book.

So, when one of my students presented me with the laughable theory that most of Europe’s ruling class were supernatural beings, I naturally dismissed it as a case of too many horror movies and not enough time in the library.

Even when he brought me a battered leather-bound book filled with a most remarkable personal account of the life of England's infamous monarch, I was sceptical. I was certain that this manuscript must be a fake- as, indeed, it was presented to me. I will touch more on the source of the fantastic document shortly.

Disbelief continued for a considerable amount of time, despite the research department at the university where I work proving that the document was 16th century, and that the handwriting matched existing known examples from the historical figure in question.

Eventually, I decided to read the document with my disbelief suspended, comparing it to the knowledge that I already had of the gentleman.

The voice of the man that penned the sensitive love letters, housed in the private Vatican library, was clear in the journal, sharing his terrible, shameful secret from across the centuries.

The voice of a King who was utterly devoted to his country echoed in my head, telling me how he sacrificed himself body and soul for the sustainability of his dominion, despite it requiring actions contrary to every religious belief the pious man had held since childhood. I learned of the internal battle that raged within this man in the years after his desperate deathbed decision, causing the unfortunate results that sent ripples across the known world which have shaped our lives to this day.

I read the voice of a King battling against power struggles amongst court which no conventional Princely training could have prepared him for. It seems that this, coupled with a necessity for swift, decisive action, that has labelled this King as tyrant- a label which has, thus far, proved very difficult to argue against.

***

It is indisputable that, until a tragic jousting accident on 23rd January 1536, Henry VIII was a well-loved, highly respected King. Handsome, strong and just, he led his country well, loved both his first and second wives deeply, and was instrumental to maintaining peace with England's long term rival, France.

After this accident, Henry became paranoid, cruel and vicious, most famously towards his wives and advisors.

Recently, it has been surmised that Henry suffered a catastrophic brain injury which caused his altered personality. Medically, this is a viable- indeed logical- theory which I myself subscribed to. Until recently.

 It is known that Henry was rendered unconscious for approximately two hours after the accident, and it was thought that he may not survive. Such terrible head injuries are well documented as causing major shifts in personality, and even now this is a phenomenon which is not fully understood.

 However, this newly discovered document presents a darker reason for the King's dramatic personality change.

 Henry VIII, life leaving his broken body, accepted the help of a doctor promising the monarch an alternative to his imminent death- a death which would surely send Henry's beloved England into another age of war, turmoil and instability.

 Henry took the difficult decision, and at great personal cost saved England.

 Henry VIII stepped into the unknown darkness and became a vampire.

 I know what you're thinking; this is a preposterous, ludicrous, scandalous claim. I too would once have rejected a tome with such ludicrous claims within the first few pages. After all, vampires don't exist, there is no evidence for this ridiculous theory, and certainly no reason to further besmirch the name of one of England's most infamous rulers

 Except that there is.

You hold the words of the King himself in your hands. Let him tell you of his decline into vampirism.

 The publication of this document is not a decision I have taken lightly. I know the potential for personal humiliation, and that I will be revealing a secret of a great man that has been kept for half a millennium. Yet, how could I keep this momentous revelation to myself? In reading Henry's own words, we gain an understanding of the man which simply cannot be revealed in the writings of his contemporaries. Far from the arrogant tyrant our schoolteachers taught us of, it reveals a King wracked by guilt and self-loathing, desperate to continue the peace-keeping work of his father. A King doing his best in a difficult job for which he was never intended, but destiny necessitated he take, bearing the weight of responsibility whilst longing for the carefree life he had as a child brought up in his mother's household.

It seems that the truth is sometimes stranger than fiction. It is laid out here in the King's personal diaries, hidden and protected for centuries behind a loose brick in the South Tower of Kendal Castle in Cumbria, the ancestral home of Catherine Parr's family. It was here that one of my students chanced upon it whilst visiting the ruined building with his girlfriend. Naturally assuming that the book was a fake, a preposterous folly created by a Victorian who had been reading Penny Dreadfuls, this student brought the dusty journal to me for my entertainment. How I wish that that were the case; the world was far simpler before I had to face the possibility of vampires and werewolves.

The erratic, illogical actions of England's most infamous monarch are clarified within a diary written in the King's own hand. His motives were ever pure, but this new and terrible secret of his meant that unspeakable consequences were inevitable. Henry's famed paranoia stemmed from having to hide his true nature, the cruelty of the King caused by a fateful combination of desperately trying to protect himself and his family, and the inherent nature of the vampire, which still surfaced, no matter how hard he fought.

 I have studied the diary myself many times, and am convinced that this apparently alternative explanation is in reality, the truth.

 To aid the modern reader, I have updated the King's words to a more contemporary writing style, including translating Henry's curious combination of English, French and Latin and aligning the haphazard spelling of the time to meet modern standards. I have also edited out some of the more mundane passages about court life that do not relate to the vampiric nature of Henry VIII. I have chosen to start the account from just after that fateful day of January 23rd 1536, as until that point the diary correlates directly with what is already known about Henry's life. There are a great number of excellent conventional histories about Henry VIII should you wish to increase your knowledge of the man and his times; however, little or no prior knowledge of the King is required for the enjoyment of this account, although you may find that undertaking a little study in this area may help confirm in your mind that the document is legitimate.

 I ask that you will read the events detailed here with an open mind, realising that perhaps Henry wasn't the tyrant that we are familiar with, rather a tragic antihero trying to do the best he could by the country he loved in the face of extreme adversity, the like of which is unimaginable to a mere human and commoner like myself.

 Izen Lumak

(In case you were wondering, dear reader, I have chosen to publish under a pseudonym. This is to protect the good work I have previously conducted from the inevitable criticism which this book will receive, as well as preserve the good reputation of myself and the university which has allowed my archaeological career to blossom. I am sure that you understand)

The Journal of Henry VIII,

King of England and Ireland

January 26th 1536

 I must document the events of the past few days swiftly, for fear they evaporate forever from my fragile mind.

The accident rendered me incapable of completing my daily habit of diary-writing until now. I will endeavour to commit proceedings to paper to the best of my recollection, but I admit that the details are a little unclear, and it pains my aching body excessively to hold a quill. Nonetheless, I shall persevere.

 The hazy winter sun illuminated the frost-hardened grass of the landscape visible from my chamber as I was dressed. I completed my morning prayers before visiting Anne to wish her and our unborn child a good day, as she was to be absent from the day's festivities. I thank God that she was spared the distress of witnessing my terrible fall.

I shall not think of the accident yet, instead recalling the warmth in her smile as she stood before the window, the irregular panes forming rainbows about the room and alighting upon her rich velvet gown. She wore her favourite deep blue velvet overdress, complimenting the ruby and gold swirls on her brocade skirt perfectly. The glimmer in her dark almond eyes, eyes which have bewitched me for nearly a decade, spoke of our merry days past and promised such days to come when the bubbling laughter of our Prince will fill the rooms of the palace. The recollection of this moment would bring a smile to my face now, were it not still too bruised and painful. It is a wondrous memory, one which I must crystallise to sustain me in the difficult days ahead.

 I breakfasted well, then made my way to the jousting arena in good spirits with some of my true and noblest friends. The awaiting crowd greeted us from the packed stands bedecked with standards in every colour and crest as we made our way to the tent and the squires waiting to dress us in our armour.

 Then the real excitement began.

 There is nothing to compare to sitting astride one's own steed, feeling the weight of the armour which will take the blows of the wooden lance of the opponent whose only task is to unhorse you or create a fantastic fountain of splinter as the lance shatters on your breastplate. After several successful runs, I lined up for what would prove to be the final time, the grey horse throwing huge clouds of breath into the frigid air as it paced and stamped, eager to charge once more. Closing the visor with a clang, I brought my lance to the horizontal, wound the rein around my gauntleted hand and made my charge.

 I do not remember the impact that struck me square in the chest, buckling my plate armour and sending me tumbling- no- flying through the air onto the sawdust below. I landed on my head, which cracked and bled profusely as I lay unconscious. The doctors tell me I was insensible for nearly two hours, and it seemed quite unlikely that I would ever be roused.

Praise be to God that I still live!

***

A shudder just caught me, for a new and disturbing memory floats to the surface of my foggy brain. Surely this must be some kind of delusion? I fear that it is not, for as I lift my had to my throat I feel two raised wheals approximately an inch apart, perfectly round and located over the blue vein which runs down the left side of my neck beneath my pale skin…

I awoke in the royal bedchamber, the darkness lifting to reveal the pale, anxious faces of the court physicians peering around he carved wooden posts and rich embroidery of the silk curtains of the royal bed. A dull throbbing pain was within every muscle, but that was nothing compared to the white-hot agony in my poor, shattered skull. The faces swam around me, saying incomprehensible things as I slipped between consciousness and the blackness beyond. I do not recall the exact words, but each conversation had the same theme.

 The doctors seemed unsure that I would recover; if I did, it was unlikely that I would be able to continue ruling, for surely my brain would be addled. They were doing all they could, but my injuries were so bad that it was almost certain that I would die before nightfall.

 I was desperate; not because I feared death, for I made my peace with the Almighty God long ago and am certain of my place in Heaven. Instead, I feared for the instability my death would cause the country I love so much. I have no male heir, and Elizabeth is barely more than a babe in arms and would be entirely incapable of ruling the country. My daughter would become no more than a political pawn for whichever Lord Protector was to rule in her stead until she was old enough to rule for herself- assuming that she did not meet a similar fate to the young sons of Edward IV, who have not been seen since their removal to the Tower of London by their Uncle Richard III. Without a strong ruler, the fragile peace with France is sure to shatter, the Scots would have no resistance if (or rather, when) they tried once more to invade my land in the north, and various noblemen would leap upon such an opportunity to seize power, plunging the country into bloody civil war once again.

 So I had no choice but to take the salvation offered to me, despite it being a terrible, blasphemous solution.

 I begged the doctors to do anything but let me die. I was entrusted with the throne, and now due to some inconsequential game it was to face an uncertain future.

 One by one, they hung their heads and said there was no more they could do; they had used their arsenal of medical knowledge, and applied it to no avail.

 I would surely disappear from this world with the evening's setting sun.

 Each drifted from my bedside, none wanting to be the doctor that oversaw the death of their monarch. How I wished I had not mounted that steed in the tilt yard! How I wished I had heeded my father and never jousted at all, thus sparing those who loved me from the impending pain.

 One man, however, said he may have a solution, but that in order to present it he must have an audience with myself, and myself alone. Without a second thought, I dismissed the rest of the collective, instructing them not to return until Dr William Butts exited the room and I summoned them back in.

Though what I have chosen sickens me, I had no alternative.

I had to accept his offer, terrible as it was.

I should not think on that now. I must rest, else I shall never recover my meagre strength. I will document the meeting with the doctor on the morrow, although how I wish that it was another feverish delusion caused by the splitting of my skull. I shall rest my aching head until daybreak, then resume my dreadful tale.

Perhaps I shall find it to be a dream after all, and be able to laugh at the childish delusions I imagine.

I pray to God that this is so.

27th January 1536

 I am certain now that it was no mere delusion caused by my injuries. God help and preserve his servant, King Henry! I shall need all the help I can get in the following days.

***

Once the other physicians left the chamber, Dr Butts pulled a chair close to my bedside. For several minutes, he surveyed my broken countenance with a silent smirk, obviously enjoying the unprecedented access to his now vulnerable monarch. Distinction of rank means little when the knowledge of an inferior is required, and the underling will always exploit the unusual situation if presented to him.

 I was too weak to protest this heartless treatment- but then legend has always told that his kind are heartless and cruel, so in hindsight such sufferance at his hands is no surprise. I must fight that, later. I will not become like him in that way.

 After what felt like an eternity, the vile man who would prove to be my salvation in a time of dire need, deigned to speak.

 So', he drawled, leaning forward until his nose was barely an inch from my own, you're not ready to die".

 Feebly, I shook my head.

 And you are willing to do anything to prevent it?

 Yes, I whispered. Your price?

 No fee, your Highness, no fee. It is an honour and a privilege to serve my lord and King.

 It was a testament to how sick I was that this did not seem peculiar at that moment and I did not ask why no recompense was necessary. No man in history has yet refused payment of any kind when his unique services are so desperately needed. But then, Dr Butts lost his humanity a long time ago.

 A small favour from your Highness’s court is all I ask.

 I agreed. Anything, I cried, whatever you ask!

 His soulless smile widened, humourless satisfaction in his cruel eyes.

 "We shall sort that out after your… recovery.

 But first, allow me to introduce myself properly"

 This struck me as odd, even in my hazy frame of mind. Dr Butts had been a physician in my court for many years, regularly attending courtiers when they were unwell. He had even treated the current Queen before we were married when she had the sweats. Without his assistance, she would have surely died. I showered him with gifts after saving my beloved's life, and had no hesitation about giving him a place at court. In short, I felt that by now I probably knew the man as well as any King could know his doctor- and yet I was already seeing a man I never had before. Though he was physically unaltered, there seemed to be a change, though I could not at the time identify it. On reflection, I have the impression that his features became more defined, sharper somehow, and his eyes seemed to have an unnatural lustre to them.

 "My name is currently Dr William Butts. It has on previous occasions been different, though I do not intend to divulge much of my past lives to you. I am currently a doctor. Again, I have at various times in my life held different stations in society. In my first incarnation, I was a villager in an impoverished part of Lincolnshire. I toiled in the fields, living off the land. But I wanted more. So much more.

 I began poaching. I moved from trapping pheasants to stealing work tools left unattended on the estates that were my hunting ground. Of course, this all went relatively unnoticed, what with the war and everything".

 War? There hadn't been a war in this country since my father overthrew that scoundrel Richard fifty years ago. I asked if he'd been abroad at this point in his life.

 No, no. I'm far older than I look, you see.

 He must have been- he barely looked five-and-forty years old, for him to have been more than a child at the end of the last war on English soil would have been impossible.

 "Where was I? Oh yes. From stealing tools, I began breaking into the houses of the rich, taking small items to sell. I continued this successfully for some time, moving around England to avoid detection. I became richer and richer, and I lived a comfortable if nomadic life. I arrived in town, introduced myself as a merchant of fine items, traded in that area for a few weeks, stole stock for the next town, then simply moved on. By the time anyone in those dull provincial backwaters made the connection between the thefts and the charming young merchant, I was far away counting my successes and preparing for the next ruse. I was a scoundrel, though some might argue that not much has changed on that part.

 The change came when one day the owner of the house I was robbing caught me in the act. He darted across the room, grabbed my throat and lifted me up with extraordinary strength.

 The fear that passed through me was terrible, as you can imagine. Sharp fingernails pressed into the flesh of my throat as I struggled against the tapestry I was forced against, the fabric that barely cushioned the hard panelling behind that crushed my spine. He snarled awful things, showing pointed teeth as he raved, but in my fright I barely heard him, and I confess I would not after so much time be able to recollect the words anyway.

 I assure you that I begged for my life, sire, just like you begged not half an hour since. I pleaded with him to let me down, so that I might return the items I stole from him and more, if that is what would secure my release. I swore I'd never return, that I'd mend my ways and join the church, that I'd stay as his servant if he wanted- anything at all if he'd just let me live.

 He laughed, examining the pathetic specimen within his grasp as I writhed and gasped for air, tears streaking my face as I bargained for my pitiful life. After several minutes of feeding off my terror, he dropped me to the cold stone floor, which bruised bones but nonetheless was most welcome after such prolonged period with no earthly support. He told me that a particular kind of servant was just what he was looking for.

 Are you aware of the legend of vampires, sire? Not so much? this may seem a tangential topic, sire, but I assure you that it is not.

 It is said by simple, peasant folk across our nation and beyond that it is possible for a person to live again after their death. They say that it is possible for a person to live forever by drinking the life blood of other people, but that this travesty of human nature destroys one's soul, as this action is abhorrent unto to God. This is a knowledge known by many of the man-eating peoples around the world, although they do not remember where this knowledge comes from.

It comes from the vampire race, though humans often do not understand that it is only the blood which is really needed; this is the life force, and flesh is inconsequential for regeneration. It is said that it is impossible for vampires to die, although this is not entirely true, and that there are certain things that a vampire can and cannot do. Again, this is not entirely true, but it is a useful lie.

 Perhaps you are wondering about this deviation on my narrative, sire, but all will become clear shortly. You see, the gentleman in question is one of these evidently not-so-legendary creatures.

 Ah, I see that your Highness does not believe me. It is of little consequence; belief or disbelief of a fact does not change the truth of it.

Well, sire, one of the things that vampires can do is turn humans into other vampires if they wish. There is a slightly different technique to just the draining of blood which is employed to achieve this, which is why the world is not overrun with vampires; I will be happy to demonstrate this technique to your Highness later if desired. It tends to work better of the subject is willing.

 The person that is turned into the vampire becomes the servant of the one who turned them into a vampire, do you see? And then any vampire created by this new vampire becomes in turn a servant of the original vampire as well as the one who turned them. Like a chain. And the original vampire grows in power with each link in the chain.

 This vampire that caught me sneaking around his house was looking for a way to increase his power, and was therefore looking for… well, I guess you could call us recruiters to the cause.

 And so, to save my neck, as it were, I too became a vampire".

I thought I must have lost my senses again, for surely I could not have been hearing such monstrous things. Perhaps it was my imagination? Perhaps the doctor’s story was not as ludicrous as I recall it, and my recollection of vampires is no more than the fevered fantasy of my bruised head. I can only pray that this is the case, though what I remember the physician saying next makes me fear that this is not so.

 Dr Butts continued: "That was, oh, several centuries ago now- one does so easily lose track of time when one lives indefinitely- and I do remember that those first few weeks adjusting to the lifestyle were rather difficult. However, once one gets used to the new diet and implements some useful techniques for overcoming some of the difficulties of vampirism, it really is a very good way of life. Provided you remember to move to a new community every decade or two to avoid arousing suspicion with your long and healthful life. But living forever? Ah, there is a freedom in that which is worth more than anything. You can go anywhere, do anything. No limitations. Not like the human society, where you are apprenticed to a job, then you do that job every day till you die. Day after day hammering iron or tanning leather- where's the fulfilment in that? Even nobility train their children to be nobles, which is what they will be. They have no choice. But when you have to reinvent yourself on a regular basis, why would you not be a merchant in one life, an ambassador in the next, an explorer, a libertine… even a court doctor.

You may be wondering why I'm telling you all this. Of course, your Highness may decide that becoming a being that exists by liking the blood of humans is an awful idea, and that your imminent death is the preferable choice. If this is the case, then I have nothing to fear by telling you my tale".

The mention of my death flooded me with a fresh wave of dread. Though I have always faced the prospect of death bravely, never did I seem as close as in that moment. The immortal fiend at my bedside smiled, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

 "I am, however, offering your Highness an alternative to your premature death. The country has been prospering under sire's reign, and with no suitable heir apparent, the country is sure to be thrown into turmoil with the lack of a strong and consistent leader. All your hard work, nurturing peace in this land and abroad would be swiftly undone. One of the rebel lords would take over eventually, or perhaps a foreign head of state would take your place, but before that a terrible war would occur. Your legacy would no more be a reign of peace and prosperity, but that your death caused by foolish frivolities caused a war more terrible than any previous. It is also likely that the Princess and Queen would be executed or exiled as part of the purge necessary for a full takeover of power. Of course, this may not happen, but you won't be around to prevent it should this course of events unfold.

 So, sire, it is time. What is your