Ryder
Page 13
“Waltham?” Niobe looked doubtful. “Where Harold was supposed to be buried? No one has believed that in quite a while. If they’re sidetracked there, it won’t be for long. Here is the next most obvious place to come looking for clues—our dig has been well publicized. We’d better get moving. If we want to stay ahead of the villains.” She leaped from the trench and strode toward the tent.
Ayesha and Joram, following Niobe more slowly, were in time to see her almost collide with a young man who emerged from the tent. He had a mass of shaggy blond hair and was dressed in faded blue jeans and a ripped David Bowie T-shirt. The student intern, Joram realized, as Niobe spoke to him briefly, then clapped him on the shoulder, before entering the tent. The young man glanced at them, then turned and headed toward the abbey visitor center.
When Niobe reemerged, she was wearing an old brown leather jacket, much faded and cracked. She had removed her bandanna, revealing dark brown hair that fell in glossy waves about her shoulders. She clapped a battered fedora onto her head. “Now I can wear this for real.” She smiled broadly. “Let’s roll!”
Five minutes later they were in a dark green Land Cruiser with the University of Sussex’s logo painted on its sides. Ayesha sat in the front next to Niobe, who was driving. Joram sat in the back. In no time they were out of Battle, on a winding country road. Tall hedgerows on either side blocked much of the view. Joram stared through the window, eager to get to their destination and whatever awaited them. He reminded himself they had no right to expect to find anything, but that had been the case at Battle Abbey. If it weren’t for the coincidence of the archaeological dig taking place, their quest would have ended there. They were going to find Harold. He felt it in his bones.
Chapter 28
“Dame Imogen. Mr. Danforth.” Philip Balfour waved them to a pair of visitors’ chairs. “I presume you’re here about the attack on the prime minister.”
“Not exactly.” Imogen considered Balfour. Tall, distinguished looking, with perfectly coiffed salt-and-pepper hair. Immaculately dressed. He looked every inch the foreign minister—a role in which he’d been exceedingly successful. He’d make a good prime minister, she decided, although she’d heard he modeled himself on Anthony Eden. Eden had also been a successful foreign minister, and wartime deputy to Winston Churchill. But he’d been a disaster as prime minister, resigning after leading Britain into the disastrous 1956 attack on Egypt to try to retain control of the Suez Canal, in conjunction with France and Israel.
Imogen glanced at the CIA station chief. Less than an hour had passed since they’d talked on the phone and agreed to coordinate their attempt to displace the acting head of the British government.
It rankled her that the Americans were part of this very British affair. She’d rather they were keeping it in the family. There’d never been a choice, though, which is why they were both sitting in Philip Balfour’s office—to invite him to stab his leader in the back. At least it was Danforth. She hardly thought of him as American, despite his good ol’ boy routine.
“What then?” the foreign minister asked her.
“Noel Malcolm.”
“My esteemed colleague, our acting prime minister?” Balfour’s eyebrows twitched upward, but he displayed no other emotion. Inscrutable, she thought, as befitted the senior minister of state. “What about him?”
“We believe he’s behind the assassination attempt on Susannah Armstrong.”
Balfour’s reaction was more satisfactory this time. His eyes bulged slightly and his jaw dropped a fraction. “CIA agrees?” he asked Danforth, after a moment.
The big American nodded.
Balfour steepled his fingers. “You have proof?”
Imogen could imagine his thought processes. She’d been where he was, often. He was playing for time while his brain processed the implications of the bombshell they’d just dropped in his lap.
“Not yet,” she replied. “The case against Malcolm is circumstantial. But compelling. So much so that we believe it dangerous for him to continue as acting prime minister, let alone be confirmed in the position, should the worst happen and Susannah Armstrong die, or be permanently incapacitated.”
“I see.” Balfour’s bottom lip disappeared beneath his top lip. “You’d better tell me everything.”
“What do you want from me?” Balfour asked some minutes later, when Imogen had finished explaining.
Here goes. “You have a party room meeting in a few hours? To vote on the leadership?”
“Yes. But I can’t tell them what you’ve told me. Not without proof.”
“We’ll find the proof.” Imogen checked the time. “If we don’t find it in time, we want you to move against Malcolm. Stand for the leadership position yourself.”
“I see.” Balfour’s mask, which had slipped when she’d broken the news of their suspicion of Malcolm, remained firmly in place.
“Will you do it?”
“Yes.”
“Minister.” Danforth leaned forward. Imogen noticed the momentary twinge that meant his wound was making itself felt. No one else would have spotted it. “Dame Imogen is a servant of the Crown. As such she will obviously comply with the wishes of the government of the day….” He looked at Imogen. She nodded. “We—my president—is very concerned about the vote today in the House of Commons: Malcolm’s plan to take England out of the United Kingdom. Out of the EU and NATO and the rest. Can I ask where you stand on that?”
The foreign minister shifted in his chair. “This is in strictest confidence, you understand?” he asked them.
“Of course.”
Danforth nodded.
“Very well.” Balfour steepled his hands once more. “I’m against the idea. Malcolm thinks I’m for it. As do others. Frankly, I’ve been straddling the fence.” He shrugged. “I’m a politician. I like my job. If Susannah had continued in office the matter would never have arisen. She was against Malcolm’s bill, as I’m sure you know, and people would have fallen in line behind her. There was always the chance Malcolm could become leader, though. So I’ve hedged my bets. If I’m leader, I can assure you, the idea will be dead and buried. Along with Malcolm’s career.”
Danforth blew out his cheeks. “Will you permit me to convey that to my president?”
“Y-yes…but you must emphasize this is not to be repeated to a soul. Until I’ve declared myself.”
“You have my word. He’ll be very relieved.”
“Seems like we have a coup in the making,” Danforth said to Imogen, when they were outside the Foreign Office.
“Yes. A nice, polite, very British coup. Now all we have to do is find proof Malcolm was behind the attempt on the prime minister’s life.”
“You still want me to go to Hastings?”
“Yes, please.” As she settled back against the cushions in her car, she watched Danforth stride toward a waiting taxi. She hoped he’d find Ayesha in Hastings. Balfour had sounded confident of his ability to unseat Malcolm. But then, politicians were nothing if not practiced at sounding confident.
Chapter 29
The minutes passed in silence while the Land Cruiser ate up the miles. Ayesha cast a sidelong glance at their driver. Niobe Bagot was everybody’s idea of what an archaeologist ought to look like. Not beautiful, but with a long face accentuated by high cheekbones. A generous mouth was deeply marked by laughter lines. The archaeologist also had a toughness about her, an air of calm certitude that was rare, in Ayesha’s experience. Instinctively, she knew Niobe would be a useful companion in a fight. She wondered if she’d made another friend. It seemed to be a good week for it.
The giant sails of a wooden mill loomed at the top of a long hill. An elegant relic of the Industrial Revolution, it stood sentinel over the surrounding landscape. Its long shadow stretched down the hill, pointing like a finger toward a little cluster of buildings at the bottom.
“Herstmonceux,” Niobe informed them.
Ayesha counted two pubs, a general store, three hairdres
sers, and an Indian restaurant. A sociologist would have made something of that, she reflected. She opened her mouth to speak, but Joram got in first.
“Where’s the church?” he asked Niobe.
The archaeologist slowed the Land Cruiser to a crawl and peered through the windshield. “There’s a sign.” She nodded to the right. “HERSTMONCEUX CASTLE AND ALL SAINTS PARISH CHURCH.”
“How old is the castle?” Ayesha asked her.
“Its origins predate the Conquest. But it’s been rebuilt several times over the centuries. It was actually the home of Greenwich Observatory awhile back. It’s a school now. Sort of an international study center, run by a Canadian university.”
The lane wound through the heart of the English countryside, all of it farmland: a mixture of crops and animals. It could not have looked all that different, Ayesha thought, when Harold met William in battle all those centuries ago. Huge oaks spread branches over the lane, in some places interlacing so they passed through patches of near darkness before reemerging into the spring sunshine.
After eight minutes the church appeared on their right, behind a low stone wall fronting the lane, which ended just beyond the church, at a pretty whitewashed and thatch-roofed cottage that had to be the vicarage.
“Down there,” Niobe said, pointing, when they’d alighted. “The castle.” She crossed the lane and leaned against a barred gate. Down the hill at the bottom of a little valley, a great, battlemented structure rose foursquare and fairy-tale-like above the surrounding forest of oaks.
“As an archaeologist I have to tell you it’s not terribly authentic as far as castles go,” Niobe explained. “Despite those battlements, the moat, and the stone bridge across it, most of it is less than three hundred years old. Only the gatehouse is truly old. It was never besieged, either. No battle ever took place here.”
Suddenly, as if to contradict Niobe’s words, something that looked like a large boulder flew into the sky above the trees to the right of the castle. It landed on the grassy slope in front of the moat with a massive thump and rolled slowly back down the hill.
—
Ayesha gripped the top of the gate. She stared as a group of people, fifteen or twenty in all, charged from the tree line toward the castle. They were dressed in leather and chain mail, with round metal helmets. Most of them waved swords or axes. One, apparently the leader, and older than the rest, sat upon a richly caparisoned horse and held a shield tight against his body as he rode. As the formation approached the bridge, they heard a whistle. It was apparently a signal, for instantly, more people appeared on the battlements atop the gatehouse.
“Archers!” Ayesha exclaimed.
A second whistle sounded, and the archers drew back on their bowstrings. A third whistle, and they let fly. Arrows flew from the battlements. The missiles fell harmlessly into the moat, or rattled on the bridge. There were jeers from the attackers, who, at an order from their mounted commander, turned and marched back into the trees.
“Reenactors?” Joram asked Niobe.
“Sort of. They’re students at the school in the castle. As well as modern courses, they have some specially designed to take account of the unique setting. One of the most popular is a medieval warfare program. They have a whole range of weaponry and armor. Even some replica siege engines. That rock we saw was probably thrown by a trebuchet. I know they have one. They don’t actually try to hit the castle, of course. Or kill one another.”
They watched for a few minutes, but, when nothing else happened, Niobe strode across the lane to the churchyard. Joram followed her. So, reluctantly, did Ayesha.
The churchyard was typical picture-postcard English. Lush, green, manicured grass surrounded low burial mounds surmounted by a variety of ancient stone memorials, softly draped in lichen and leaning every which way. Ayesha paused to look at those nearest the path. She gave up when she realized the epitaphs inscribed on them had long since become undecipherable from the action of time and the elements.
The church door was set back under a porch at the western end of the building, before a tall, spired tower. The porch itself was colorfully decorated with flowers. As they approached, the door opened and a woman emerged. Fiftyish, she had short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and was casually dressed in blue jeans and a tan Barbour waxed jacket. She beamed when she saw them. “Good morning. Wedding? Christening? Not a funeral, I hope. I’m Caroline Frost,” she added. “The vicar.”
“Good morning, Vicar,” Joram replied. “The answer is, none of the above.” He threw a quick glance at the others, then added, “We’re looking for something. Or someone rather…Harold. King Harold…the one who was killed at the Battle of Hastings.”
Caroline Frost stared at her visitors. She smiled broadly. Then she cocked her head to the side, indicating the doorway behind her. “I know who you mean. He’s inside. At least I think so. Want to see?”
“Do we!” Niobe exclaimed. “Lead on, Vicar.”
Ayesha felt a sudden tightening in her gut. It couldn’t be this easy. Still, she wasn’t going to gainsay what the gods, not that she believed in gods, seemed to have delivered into their laps.
Chapter 30
Thwack! Thwack! The cane whistled through the air and scored another vivid red wheal across the pale skin of Noel Malcolm’s buttocks.
He bit his lip and tried not to cry out. The more noise he made the more his mother would whip him. A few more strokes and her arm would get tired. He knew this from bitter experience. If only he could keep quiet. If he screamed or begged for mercy it excited her into a fresh paroxysm of rage.
Thwack! Thwack!
His body jerked spasmodically. He couldn’t bear it any longer. The pain was excruciating. He opened his mouth to scream. Then, something happened. A feeling of delicious warmth spread through his lower parts. His mother paused. “Nooo!” he cried. “Please no!”
Thwack!
The memory helped to still the roiling cauldron that was Noel Malcolm’s gut as he strode into the conference room in Westminster Palace. He was confident of the support of a majority of his party’s ministers and backbenchers. That knowledge did little to calm him. Everything was at stake. His entire political career was on the line. Susannah Armstrong was as good as dead, so he’d been told. That being so, confirmation as acting prime minister by his colleagues was virtually the same as their endorsement for the premiership once she’d done the decent thing and died. Under Britain’s electoral system, he wouldn’t have to call a general election for another three years. He smiled at the thought. By then he’d be entrenched, his rule unchallenged. If it was…well, he knew how to deal with dissent.
The party chairman called the meeting to order and the room quieted. He took a seat on the dais, alongside Philip Balfour and the home secretary, Norman Eldritch. Given that they were the three senior and most experienced members of the government, everyone knew they were the main contenders for prime minister. The home secretary was his only threat. He was sure of Balfour, who had promised his support during their meeting earlier. Balfour had also promised that he’d vote in favor of Malcolm’s bill. Balfour had been most impressed; excited, too, when Malcolm had explained about Harold’s sword. Balfour agreed it would make the perfect symbol for a newly independent England.
“The news is very grave,” the chairman said from the lectern at the center of the dais. “I have to tell you that the prime minister is at death’s door, and is not expected to survive.” A shocked murmur rose and fell from the men and women crowded into the room. Not that the news could have come as a surprise to any of them.
“Thank you,” the chairman continued, when the hubbub subsided. “As you all know, Noel Malcolm has been acting prime minister since Susannah Armstrong was struck down. It is now our duty to vote on whether he should continue in that role, or whether another should take over.” The chairman glared around the room, leaving no doubt as to his own opinion of anyone who might have the temerity to propose someone other than Malcolm.
The party chairman was droning on about Susannah Armstrong and her wondrous achievements. Malcolm tuned out and thought about the speech he would make to the Commons on his bill. It had been ready for days. He’d rehearsed it until he was word perfect. But he’d only just added in the necessary new material. Regret for the death of the prime minister would be foremost—he had no doubt she’d be dead by then—followed by promises to bring her killers to justice. Only then would he move on to his plans for the future of England. He smiled to himself. Susannah’s death could even serve a purpose—that of England’s first martyr. Saint Susannah. He suppressed a smirk. How she’d have hated that. He looked up, startled. Balfour had taken the place of the chairman at the lectern. The foreign secretary was saying something. Malcolm focused, anticipating a speech that would be part eulogy for Susannah, part endorsement of himself continuing in the role of acting prime minister.
“…which is why I would like to proffer my own services as acting prime minister in these difficult times.”
“Eh?” Malcolm heard Balfour’s words, but it took a moment for him to understand them. Disbelieving, he half rose in his seat. He sank back as he realized the foreign secretary was still talking.
“I know we all appreciate enormously the talents of our esteemed colleague, the deputy prime minister. I feel, however, that, in my own modest way, I am perhaps better positioned to bring the country together, and to ensure that we command a majority at the next general election.” Balfour paused, looked down at Malcolm, and smiled, the smile of a tiger about to devour its prey. “I am the first to acknowledge that my friend has played a pivotal role in our recent electoral success.” He coughed an embarrassed cough.