THE ELIZABETH TUDOR CONSPIRACY
The Marquess House Trilogy
Book Two
Alexandra Walsh
To Deborah: who kept me sane
To Gemma: who always made things better with laughter
To Dawn: with her wisdom and patience
And to Jo: who was there from the beginning and never doubted me,
even when I doubted myself
Thank you ladies, you’re awesome
Table of Contents
Prologue: London, 12 July 1557
PART ONE: September, 2018
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
PART TWO: May, 1586
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
PART THREE: November, 2018
Chapter One
Chapter Two
PART FOUR: July, 1586
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
PART FIVE: December, 2018
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
PART SIX: September, 1586
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Four
PART SEVEN: January, 2019
Chapter One
Chapter Two
PART EIGHT: October, 1586
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
PART NINE: January, 2019
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
A NOTE TO THE READER
Prologue: London, 12 July 1557
“Where is she?”
The young woman threw back the cowl hood of her heavy cloak and ran through the candlelit house, her boots ringing on the wooden floors. “We have only a few moments; there are guards on the road this night,” she called.
“This way, my lady,” replied a woman holding a lantern, lighting the way through the midnight shadows.
The young woman entered the room on a wave of fear and adrenalin. Was this a trap? Another plot? Then she saw the prone figure in the bed and breathed in the scent of impending death. It took every ounce of her self-control not to gag. This was no subterfuge — this was yet another farewell.
Controlling her emotions, she threw herself on to her knees beside the bed and clasped the woman’s hand. It felt cold and brittle but there was still the warmth of life. She was in time.
“My lady, can you hear me?” the young woman whispered, her voice low, insistent, urgent. “It is I…”
“I would know your voice anywhere, my dear,” the figure croaked. Once she had spoken in clear, lilting tones — now her words were hoarse, rusted with illness and loss. “My request has put you in danger but my time on this earth is almost done and there is something you must be told…” She pointed to an exquisitely carved wooden box on the table beside the bed. “This is my gift to you. Your legacy. Inside this casket is the truth about your half-sister. No, not the one who holds your life in the balance,” the woman continued, halting the girl as she made to interrupt. “There is another. She is a true princess, born in wedlock but hidden at birth.”
“No,” said the girl, her voice low with shock and disbelief.
“I tell you this to keep you safe,” said the woman, her voice a rattling whisper. “You are the rightful heir but there are always men who would see you removed, who would use this girl as a replacement.”
“No, this is treason…” The young woman recoiled from the box as though it were poisoned.
“You must listen, you must know. I promised her — my friend — that I would pass her secret on,” the woman implored. “Open the box, I beg you…”
The younger woman hesitated, then unable to resist the request of the dying woman, she unlocked the casket. Inside a small velvet pouch sat on top of a stack of parchment. The girl opened the small bag and a ruby ring fell on to her palm.
“On the side,” explained the woman, “is a catch. It opens the ring. We used them to pass messages.”
“Who…?” began the girl but a sharp knock on the door interrupted them.
“My lady, we must leave now or risk capture,” came another woman’s tense voice.
“Go,” entreated the woman in the bed. “I have put you in enough danger. The diary, the confession, it is all there, it will explain everything. Keep it safe, sweet princess, it may save your life one day.”
The young woman nodded, then bent to kiss the parchment-like skin, sadness muting her fear. Here was another woman whom she had loved, who had cared for her, being taken from her too young.
“Goodbye, my lady,” she replied, wiping the tears away as she hurried out of the room and ran with all her might through the house and out into the stable yard where her escort waited. Within moments she was mounted.
“Give me the box,” whispered the woman who had accompanied her.
“But, Isabel, if we are stopped…”
“Better my head on the block than yours,” she replied, strapping it to her saddlebag.
Biting her lip nervously the young woman was about to protest but one of the men gave the signal that all was clear and she knew there was no time to argue.
One day, she thought, I will protect them all and they won’t be able to argue with me.
And with a smile on her lips at this thought, she urged her horse forward into the black night.
PART ONE: September, 2018
Chapter One
“No!” screamed Perdita Rivers.
She was falling, her body twisting out of control, her breathing ragged as she fought to regain her balance, but she knew it was impossible. She threw out her hands, the wind tearing the screams from her mouth as she fell headfirst, tumbling over and over, until she no longer knew where was up. A large, soft snowdrift finally stopped her fall and she lay face-down in the icy coldness, catching her breath. It was then she heard the shouts of concern, punctuated by stifled giggles.
Two strong hands grabbed her around the waist and hauled her into a standing position. With great reluctance, she looked up into the dancing blue eyes of her friend, Kit Mackensie. He was doing his best to look concerned as he dusted away her covering of snow but was making a very bad job of it. Perdita, too, felt the corner of her mouth twitch.
“Stupid snowboard,” she muttered and Kit burst out laughing.
Behind them, she heard the whoosh of skis as the rest of their party arrived at her side. First to reach them was her twin sister, Piper Davidson, who skidded to a neat halt, followed by Kit’s elder sister, Megan and her fiancé, Pablo. Piper was giggling.
“Oh Perds, that was hilarious! Shame you weren’t able to work in a somersault!”
For the past few months, archaeologist Perdita Rivers and her artist sister, Piper, had been staying with the Mackensie family in their vast and impressive home, Castle Jerusalem. It was situated in the tiny principality of Andorra, which was perched on the Pyrenees mountains between France and Spain. The house, as the name suggested, was at its heart a 12th century castle that had belonged to the family for several generations. Over the years it had been extended and was now the headquarters of the Mackensies’ vast historical research business, as well as a comfortable family home. Around the castle were the impressive ski runs and luxurious resorts that added to the glamour of the small but perfectly formed tax haven.
Together the group made their way, laughing and talking, back the short distance to the winding path that led to the side entrance of Castle Jerusalem. The sun was sinking over
the mountains, streaking the sky with a magnificent show of red, orange and pink swirls. It was breath-taking but the sudden drop in temperature was stark. Perdita was looking forward to a hot bath and a change of clothes before an evening in front of the roaring fires.
“Hello!” shouted Megan as they arrived in the large ante room where the ski equipment was stored. “We’re home!”
It was a Mackensie family tradition to shout this greeting, even if there was no one around to answer. But, as they all began stripping off their outdoor clothes, basking in the heat of the flaming log-burning stove, a voice none of them expected to hear shouted a response.
“Hey everyone!”
They all exchanged a surprised look as a slender, blonde figure hurried into the room.
“Izi!” exclaimed Megan, running over to her friend. The two women hugged, then Izabel Barnes grinned around at everyone.
“When did you arrive?” asked Perdita, also greeting Izi with a hug once Megan had released her. “How is everyone at Marquess House?”
“About an hour ago,” she replied, “and everyone is fine — they all send their love and say hello.”
Perdita smiled her thanks. Marquess House was the stately home in Pembrokeshire that Perdita and Piper had inherited earlier that year from their grandmother, the eminent historian, Mary Fitzroy. Izabel worked there with her own grandmother, Jenny Procter, who was the chief librarian and archivist.
“We didn’t expect you until next week,” Perdita heard Kit exclaiming as she pulled her head clear of a thick fleece.
“As chief bridesmaid I thought Megs could do with my help,” Izi replied, grinning, and Megan beamed. “Nan, I mean Jenny, suggested I come over early, then I can help you with the wedding and, if you’d like —” she turned to Perdita — “I can assist with your research, too.”
“Izi, that would be wonderful. I haven’t begun yet, but I can’t put it off forever.”
The conversation had taken the group to the hall at the centre of Castle Jerusalem which was the conduit to all areas of the ancient building, from the original 12th century heart through to the modern business extensions.
“And,” said Izi, turning to Perdita as everyone began to disperse to their bedrooms, “message from Alistair. He has some news and would like to have a chat with you and Piper before dinner.”
It was early evening and everyone was gathered in one of the smaller sitting rooms in the castle. A huge fire burned in the carved stone fireplace, throwing out a cosy glow. Perdita sat on a two-seater sofa beside Kit, while Piper was curled in a wing armchair. Alistair and Susan Mackensie, Kit’s parents, were on another sofa by the fire. Perdita was trying to keep her tone reasonable but she could feel her frustration growing.
“So, why can’t we go home?” she asked. “Apart from Megan and Pablo’s wedding, obviously; but once that’s over, do you still intend for us to remain at Castle Jerusalem?”
“For the time being, yes, my dear — I think you’re safer here than returning to Marquess House,” replied Alistair Mackensie.
Perdita shook her head in irritation. She still found it hard to believe this was her life. Six months ago, she had been working on an archaeological dig when her then fiancé, Warren Dexter, had arrived with the news that her estranged grandmother, Mary Fitzroy, had died. The following day she had received a letter from Alistair, who had been Mary’s solicitor, inviting her to her grandmother’s stately home, Marquess House in St Ishmaels in Pembrokeshire, only a few miles from the dig site.
During the interview, Alistair had explained that she and Piper were the main beneficiaries of Mary’s will and, apart from a few personal bequests, they had inherited everything — her manor house, an extensive research centre and a vast fortune. They were now worth in excess of £300 million between them.
It had taken the twins a while to come to terms with their inheritance. They could not understand why their grandmother had shunned them in life — abandoning them after their mother’s death when they were seven years old — yet had embraced them in death. Determined to unravel this mystery and, with Piper in America accompanying her husband, Jeremy Davidson, Perdita had resigned from her university job, and moved into Marquess House.
Once ensconced, she had searched her grandmother’s published and unpublished books for clues and, to her astonishment, had discovered a trail of information left by Mary for her to find. It seemed the key to Mary’s behaviour lay in her unfinished manuscript The Catherine Howard Anomaly, which she had been working on at the time her daughter, Louisa, the twins’ mother, had died in a road accident.
With the help of Alistair’s son, Kit Mackensie, Perdita had uncovered more than she had imagined. Not only had she discovered the truth about her mother’s death and the real reason Mary had stepped away from them, she also revealed an incredible but provable alternate version of Tudor history concerning Henry VIII and his fifth bride, Catherine Howard. Struggling to understand why such an incredible historical revelation had been covered up, Perdita was told of the real danger she now faced was from a shadowy section of the British Secret Service called MI1 Elite.
This organisation was tasked with retaining the accepted version of history, removing and destroying any evidence that emerged which might offer an alternative view to the one recorded in the history textbooks. What made matters worse was that her former fiancé, Warren Dexter, had been part of this highly secretive and dangerous section of the British government. It transpired he had been married throughout their relationship and had seduced her in order to discover what she knew about her grandmother’s work. While Perdita had dealt with her own emotional upheaval, Piper’s marriage to Jeremy had collapsed when he had an affair with a co-worker called Kirstin.
The twins were told they were protected by an ancient document called The Milford Haven Treaty that created a sovereign state within Marquess House, making them immune from arrest by the secret service while they were living there. However, in order to get around this, the new and ruthless head of MI1, Inigo Westbury, had reintroduced The White List, an assassination register of academics who tried to reveal more than the government was willing to allow. Although Alistair had been able to have the arrest warrants for treason quashed, it nevertheless meant Perdita, Piper and Kit had been in incredible danger and had been forced to flee for their lives. This was the reason they were currently in the Mackensies’ stronghold in Andorra.
“But Dad,” interjected Kit, his tone as constricted as Perdita’s, “won’t The Milford Haven Treaty protect us? You said the Home Secretary was investigating Inigo Westbury and we were no longer on The White List, which according to him, doesn’t exist anyway.”
“Quite correct,” said Alistair. “My desire to keep us all here is nothing to do with the Treaty or even MI1.” He paused, taking a sip of wine, then turned to Piper, who was gazing into the dancing fames. “Piper, I apologise now for what we have to discuss, as you may find it distressing. When Perdita first told me about the woman your husband has been having an affair with, Kirstin Chaplin, I sent one of my teams to investigate…”
“Why though, Alistair?” asked Piper, her voice low. “We know they’re having an affair. Jeremy’s plastering their pictures all over social media.”
“It’s not to discover what they are doing now,” he explained. “It’s to find out who she really is because she isn’t an IT Consultant on a contract with Jeremy’s company. I suspected she might be a professional mistress sent by a company who would subsequently try to persuade Jeremy to fight for at least half of your inheritance and access to Marquess House. However, at present, she seems to have no connections to any of the usual organisations who instigate this kind of high-level sting.”
Perdita, Piper and Kit exchanged horrified looks.
“You think Jeremy and I have been set up?” asked Piper.
“We can’t dismiss the idea.”
“Rather like Warren and me,” said Perdita in a quiet but bitter tone.
�
�Unfortunately, yes,” Alistair said. “However, while Kirstin Chaplin is not affiliated to any of the usual companies that organise such stings, I have discovered she has links to someone else.”
“Who?” asked Perdita.
“Randolph Connors,” said Alistair. “The son of Cecily Connors née Fitzroy, Mary’s younger sister.”
“Which would make him Mum’s cousin,” said Perdita.
“Yes,” confirmed Alistair, “and when you two inherited Marquess House, he was furious.”
“Why?” asked Piper.
“It seems your father and grandmother had played their parts well over the years because Randolph believed the charade they set up after your mother’s death. He was confident that when Mary died, Marquess House would come to him. However, under the terms of the will and the many covenants put in place over the years, even if he had been the only claimant, the house would never have been his; you see, Marquess House can only be passed to a female heir.”
“I wondered,” said Perdita. “Don’t you remember, Pipes, we discussed it the first day we were told about our inheritance?”
“We joked about it,” agreed Piper, “but we didn’t know for sure. Isn’t primogeniture usually all about keeping property and money in the male line?”
“It is, but your female ancestors were the ones with the money and they were very forward-thinking women. In order to scare away ruthless, fortune-hunting men, a clause was created that stated Marquess House and the money it generated could only be passed through the female line. When Mary inherited, then gave birth to Louisa and she gave birth to female twins, there was no question about where the trust would go with each generation.”
“Way to go, Granny,” murmured Piper, and Perdita smothered a grin, not wishing to seem disrespectful as Alistair explained his concerns.
“However, Mary had a younger sister, Cecily, who died young,” he continued. “Her widower, Albert Connors and their son, Randolph, were told that they had a claim on Cecily’s extremely large trust fund but would never be able to gain access or ownership to Marquess House. Albert had no interest in the house but his son, Randolph, in recent years has become obsessed with Marquess House and the aristocratic roots it represents.”
The Elizabeth Tudor Conspiracy Page 1
