The Tudor Plot

by Steve Berry

  “Good question.”

  They entered the far tunnel. More bulbs lit the way. The passage wound a path with no offshoots until ending at another chamber, this one smaller than the first but nonetheless Celtic—the same knotwork designs dotted the stone face. On the far wall, a bulb illuminated writing.

  EFFIGIEM CHRISTI QUI TRANSIS PRONUS HONORA—ANNO MCCCVI

  “You who are hurrying past, honor the image of Christ—AD 1306,” Goulding said, reading the words.

  The tracks in the sand moved through the chamber and out another of the three exit tunnels. The same one where the cables fed. They followed, the new passage narrower than the first two, its walls sharper and lighter in tone. Bulbs were sparse, about thirty feet apart. The air was colder, truly like a tomb, their condensed breath leading the way. They passed openings that led into the pitch dark. Man-made niches appeared periodically in the rock face. Latin inscriptions were chiseled into the stone of a few.

  The dual tracks continued ahead.

  Was he being led?

  The tunnel snaked a path deeper into the mountain. Their level changed twice, and the route rose steadily. The passage ended in another cathedral-like chamber, this one with a towering ceiling of jagged rock cast in a bluish tint by steaming halogen floods. A stone plinth dominated the center, about twenty feet square. Celtic symbols decorated the edges, along with more Latin letters.

  But it was the bodies that drew their attention. Three men. Dressed in heavy coats and boots. Bullet holes to the head.

  “Now you can be worried,” he said.

  But he wasn’t surprised. The mess had to be cleaned. Nothing could be left.

  “That’s horrible,” Goulding said.

  Thanks to the cold, it was hard to tell how long they’d been dead.

  He turned his attention to the chamber, concerned that they may not be alone. But they were too far involved now to turn back.

  Had that been the idea?

  “Is this Arthur’s grave?” he asked.

  Goulding knelt before the plinth. “The writing talks of Christ, the Virgin, and the sanctity of a sovereign. But Celts never would have buried a chieftain in this manner. Their graves are more personal. Intimate.”

  His internal clock told him they’d left Keflavik three hours ago.

  “Look over there,” the professor said.

  He saw it, too.

  Another power cable, disappearing into a wall cleave. They moved closer and examined the exit, then he led the way inside. Twenty feet and they came to a man-made doorway, created from block façades carved into the rock. Celtic designs decorated its base.

  The chamber beyond was lit.

  They entered.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Yourstone made his way into the castle. He’d been summoned earlier, surprised that the queen was now west of London, at Windsor. Once the massive fortress had been her favorite retreat, but as Parkinson’s slowly consumed her muscles it had become increasingly difficult for her to travel in comfort. Nonetheless, for some reason the court had fled the city and was now in residence at a place royalty had continuously occupied since the time of William the Conqueror.

  He was still dismayed over the events of yesterday. News reports continued to speak of an errant military drone plunging into the Thames. The military had accepted full responsibility. Some members of Parliament were calling for an investigation.

  But he doubted that would occur.

  Whoever was controlling the spin of this story would squelch any official inquiries. Something bad was happening. He needed details. But Eleanor had not returned to the town house, and his attempts to telephone the voice he’d many times spoken with had been futile. Andrew had proven the most annoying. Unaware of the connection between the missile and Albert, his son had pressed for the details of how he would become king.

  But there was none to tell.

  “Lord Yourstone.”

  He stopped at the mention of his name and turned to see Richard strolling down a carpet runner that bisected the wide loggia. The prince was dressed casually, as there was no danger of a prying press here.

  “I need to speak with you.”

  Concern filled the heir’s face.

  He was led into a nearby parlor, the room paneled with beveled glass windows. Richard closed the door behind them.

  Yourstone wanted to know, “What is this about? I was summoned here with no notice of why.”

  “You are to tell me the truth. I will not tolerate any lies. Did you conspire to murder Albert?”

  The question confirmed his fears of what had failed at the Tower. “Are you mad?”

  “Do not anger me. Answer the question.”

  He grabbed his riddled composure and calmed himself. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “Mother believes you are conspiring with my sister to usurp the Crown. I cannot believe that you would ever do such a thing. Tell me, please, that it is not so.”

  Richard was being his usual naïve self. But he had to learn what he could. So he asked, “You must tell me what is going on. It sounds as if the queen has begun to lose her senses.”

  “She’s intent on the fact you were involved yesterday with an attempt on Albert’s life. Something about that missile in the Thames. Albert himself believes it, as well.”

  “Albert is here?”

  Richard shook his head. “He left a short while ago. To a place of safety.”

  “You cannot possibly believe I would do anything to harm your son. I myself was at the Tower yesterday.”

  “That’s why I wanted to speak with you prior to your seeing the queen. I wanted to hear your explanation myself.”

  “What of your father? Does he believe the same?”

  “Absolutely.”

  His mind raced with possibilities. He needed to speak with Eleanor. But his thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door. Victoria was wheeled into the room by a uniformed attendant. Eleanor entered behind them. The attendant withdrew and shut the door.

  The queen faced her son. “I told you to escort Lord Yourstone to me.”

  Richard straightened like a scolded schoolboy. “I wanted to speak with him first.”

  “Will you ever learn to follow instructions?”

  The prince stared at Yourstone. “She wanted me to deceive you. To lead you astray. To help elicit a confession. But I will not be a party to such folly. I do not believe that you are capable of this treachery.”

  “You are a blithering fool,” Victoria said. “And your sister is a usurper.”

  “I resent that,” Eleanor said.

  “You are an ambitious, dangerous woman. Both of you should be grateful that your father is not here. His anger was too intense. I asked him to allow me to handle this alone.”

  “What does it matter?” Eleanor asked. “Soon you will be in St. Albert’s Chapel, entombed with the rest of the Saxe-Coburgs.”

  “I may disappoint you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You are as evil as your brother is stupid.”

  “I admit to nothing.” Eleanor stepped across the room toward the rays of midday sun pouring through the windows.

  “You don’t have to admit to a thing,” the queen said. “The proof was found in your purse.”

  “I doubt you will implicate your own daughter in a plot to overthrow the Crown.”

  “What are you saying, Ellie?” Richard asked.

  “Mother is right. You are stupid. You have nearly cost us all.”

  “Did you attempt to kill Albert?”

  Eleanor said nothing.

  “You would shed Saxe-Coburg blood? My son’s blood?”

  “You would destroy our reputation?” she fired back. “Our family’s honor?”

  “My son is more important.”

  “Since when, Richard? You consistently avoid him. Your public comments are nothing like a doting father. You actually seem to resent Albert, as the press has repeatedly observed. Since when ha
s your son meant anything to you? Were you thinking of him while bedding Lady Bryce?”

  Her brother’s eyes flared with rage. For an instant Yourstone saw a flash of the Scottish heritage their father had bestowed upon them.

  Then confusion reappeared.

  “You may think me ignorant,” Victoria said to her daughter. “Feeble and not of sound mind. But you are wrong. I will have you, and Yourstone, prosecuted and jailed for treason.”

  “You will do nothing,” Eleanor declared.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because of Albert. You want him to be king. For the people to learn that a royal sibling plotted the overthrow of the monarchy would forever end the Saxe-Coburgs. Thanks to Dickie, here, our tolerance level among the public is virtually nonexistent. No. You will do nothing that jeopardizes the succession to Albert.”

  The queen shifted in the wheelchair. “Your father wishes never again to lay eyes upon you.”

  “If that is my only punishment, I can endure the loss.”

  “And you will be removed from the civil list. No more money.”

  She shrugged. “My husband is wealthy.”

  “Your in-laws are traitors.”

  “But that, too, will remain our secret,” Yourstone said. “Now, won’t it?”

  The queen said nothing, but the look of contempt on her face was piercing. Richard retreated to the far side of the room.

  Something else Sun Tzu had taught 2,500 years ago occurred to him. Know the enemy and know yourself and in a hundred battles you will never be defeated.

  So true.

  He was home free.

  “Richard, push me from this room before I vomit,” the queen said. “You can perhaps be forgiven for your idiocy. Your soul is totally without malice. But this devil, your sister, and her traitor of a father-in-law cannot.”

  The prince grasped the wheelchair.

  “You will both remove yourself from the palace immediately and neither of you will ever set foot here again.”

  “Until you’re dead,” Eleanor said.

  “No, Ellie,” Richard said.

  The prince’s eyes focused tight.

  “That order will remain in my reign, and in my son’s and his children’s thereafter. That much I swear will be done.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Malone stared into the lit room, his gaze focusing on what looked like an enormous high-backed couch. He stepped close and caressed the top edge. “Bronze?”

  “Celts were good with metal,” Goulding said.

  Its blackened face was embossed with dancing figures and horses pulling carts. The workmanship was intricate and had survived intact.

  Lying across the couch were the remains of a skeleton.

  From end to end the figure appeared about six feet tall. Only bones remained. Bits of cloth lay scattered among the bones—perhaps, he thought, burial robes long gone to dust. A gold ornament rested where the neck had once existed. Malone suspended his hand above the band. The diameter spread the width of his extended fingers. “He was a big man.”

  Malone knelt before the bier and noticed that it rested on eight metal statues, each a woman, bare-breasted, atop a unicycle, the wheel of each cycle forming a caster. The design was ingenious and sophisticated. He traced the outline of lettering with his gloved hands.

  “Latin,” Goulding said. “It’s a hope the deceased finds the other world and is happy. Only leaders were given this honor.”

  He studied the rest of the room. Dark shadows signaled more objects. On the far side, to the right of the entrance, sat a wagon made of what appeared to be wood. He stepped toward it and saw iron wheels festooned with bronze chains and figurines. Like the couch, the workmanship was astonishing.

  “Probably ash, elm, or maple,” Goulding said. “I’ve read about these. Seen drawings. Bits and pieces have been found. But nothing has survived whole. This is quite an archaeological discovery.”

  The cart bed was piled with bowls, plates, platters, and knives.

  “What’s the point of the tableware?” he asked.

  “Necessities of the afterlife. Celts believed in an afterworld. Death was but a brief pause in an endless cycle of rebirth. So their dead were equipped for the long voyage. The grander the deceased, the richer the grave.” The professor pointed. “Bowls and plates were for eating, knives for hunting.” Two rows of ornamented drinking horns hung from iron chains. One horn was larger than the other six. “A mighty cup for Arthur, the rest for his companions.”

  “Cup of what?”

  “Over there.”

  In the remaining corner sat a bronze cauldron. Its handles were crafted as lions, but the images were distorted, more caricatures than faithful animal representations. He followed Goulding over to it. Sediment filled the inside, black and hard as stone.

  “Fermented honey mead. A common drink for Celts in the 6th century. The drinking horns would have been used to empty this cauldron. Can’t go to the afterworld thirsty.”

  He knelt down and studied the odd-shaped lions.

  “Celtic representations,” Goulding said. “There were no lions in Britain. They would have learned about them from Romans. These are the artist’s imagination at work.”

  “You know this stuff.”

  “It’s my world. Finding a tomb, like this, is the coup of a lifetime.”

  He noticed etchings in the side of the cauldron.

  Goulding bent down close. “Incredible. It’s a battle history. Mount Baden, Cat Coit Celidon, City of Legion. Those are all places where Arthur supposedly fought Saxons. The last line speaks of gueith Camlann, the Strife of Camlann, where history notes Arthur supposedly died. Incredible. This is his obituary, 6th-century style.”

  Malone noticed the intricate carving of a horse, a warrior perched on top, his chest protected by a cuirass, the head helmeted. The right hand wielded a sword, the left a lance. The man sat tall atop the animal, ready for a fight.

  “Arthur would have fought on horseback,” Goulding said.

  On a slab beside the cauldron lay more items. Buckles of bronze. A sword hilt and scabbard embellished with blackened silver. Armlets decorated with elaborate filigree. Thumb rings of enameled copper and tin. A boar’s tusk carved with more scenes from battle.

  “His things?” he asked.

  “It was tradition to bury a warrior with his possessions. They would be needed in the afterworld.”

  Porticos notched the wall, and a few contained the remnants of skulls.

  “Defeated enemies,” Goulding noted. “It was a sign of respect to bury their skulls with the dead warrior.”

  A cross filled one niche, fashioned from stone, its face divided into clear panels, each a maze of animals and knotwork designs. A burst of light caught Malone’s gaze, and he stepped close to see the center filled with a crystal the size of his fist.

  “Diamond?” he asked.

  Goulding shook his head. “Celts would not have known diamonds. Quartz of some sort, more than likely. Oh … my.”

  He caught the surprise in the voice and saw Goulding heading for a container lying on the rock floor. It was shaped like a house with a gabled roof and ridgepoles attached to the crown. A band adorned with a beast head wrapped the eaves and sides. Its exterior appeared a combination of bronze and silver inlaid with gems.

  “It’s a cumdach. Portable shrine. They were used to store books and manuscripts. I’ve only seen drawings of them. Yet here’s one in absolute pristine condition.”

  Malone studied the construction. “It appears it’ll take us both to open it.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “We’re not on an archaeological dig. We need to see what’s inside.”

  He gripped one set of the ridgepoles and Goulding clasped the other. They lifted in unison and the lid came free, sending a cascade of sand showering off as they laid the gabled top on the ground. The interior was lined with more bronze, the space empty save for a single volume, which measured about six by eig
ht inches and two inches thick.

  He carefully swiped the air above the book and shooed away centuries of dust. Faded writing could be seen.

  DE EXCIDIO ET CONQUESTO BRITANNIE

  “On the Ruin and Conquest of Britain. This is a Gildas manuscript.”

  He listened as Goulding told him about Gildas Sapiens, who lived in Britain and died somewhere around 572 CE—but not before penning a scathing attack on his contemporary churchmen and political rulers.

  “His words were a history of post-Roman, pre–St. Augustine Britain, a clear denunciation of secular and ecclesiastical authority. Most historians, though, regard his observations as more fiction than fact. But they remain the only firsthand account of 6th-century Britain.”

  He caught Goulding’s excitement.

  “There are about seventy editions of his work still around. I’ve seen the one in the British Museum. It’s a 10th-century handwritten copy of an 8th-century text.”

  “Double hearsay?”

  “Exactly. Who knows if it’s accurate. It’s also badly burned in places, and less than half the pages are legible.”

  “You think this is an original?”

  “If this tomb was fashioned in the 6th century, it’s entirely possible. Gildas lived during Arthur’s time. He was an ardent observer, a political critic at a time when criticism was not tolerated. He was learned in Latin and could read and write.” Goulding caressed the top sheet, as if carefully probing a sore. “Vellum. Much better than parchment or papyrus, and this giant refrigerator has preserved it. So, yes, Mr. Malone, this could be an original.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Disturb it?”

  “Why not? You know you want to. Frankly, I’m curious, too.”

  Goulding reverently lifted the book from its container, balancing it on one palm, studying the pages, which rested on top of one another with no binding. A quick count revealed about sixty, and the vellum was waffled from time. The professor laid the bundle across one corner of the chest and carefully lifted off the top page, using both hands from underneath, cradling the sheet before setting it aside. Each one possessed a creamy white patina, an almost unused look, the writing faded to a light gray, the penmanship small and tight, words running the entire length with no paragraphs or punctuation.