“Wait, that cannot be true!” Charles persisted. “There is no record of Henry having twin sons, in France or anywhere else.”
“There is, but it has been expunged from the official histories,” the tailor replied patiently. “The two boys, named Henry Charles and Henry Edward, were raised to age ten in an abbey in Calais. Then, the boys were separated to protect and preserve the Plantagenet bloodline, should the third son—the one we all know from school, the one who became King Henry the Sixth—die without issue. Henry’s reign and the men who sought to unseat him left England bleeding, but when Edward the Prince of Wales was murdered at Tewkesbury, the throne of England had no king. It is then that the elder twin, Henry Charles was asked to take the throne by the men who had guarded his secret. This Prince Henry lived in Scotland, and he had been raised since age ten by the 1st Earl of Aubrey as his own son. The other prince, the younger twin Henry Edward, had been raised by the Marquess of Anjou in Kent. Neither brother wished to reign, for they had loved each other from their childhood, and they realised that devious men would murder the other, if one chose to reign as king. So, it was decided that neither would take the throne, and the House of Aubrey and the House of Anjou make a pact to protect the lines for a future time when the two lines might rule as one. This was done in secret, and the York and Lancaster houses, whose men were willing to murder and make war for the right to rule, did not know the pact was made. Only when Edward the Fourth, the York victor, took the throne, did our small band of predecessors, the first inner circle, speak to this new king and tell him the truth of the royal blood that flowed in the veins of twin brothers. If the secret became commonly known, the news would lead to another war, and that would leave England open to a French invasion, so the new king was willing to make a deal, which he then signed. He granted the elder brother a new title, to him and all his descendants, that of Duke of Drummond. The younger was made Duke of Branham, both with promises that whether male or female, all firstborn children from both lines would not only inherit that title but would also be deemed rightful heir to the throne of England so long as their lines continued.”
Charles realised his breathing had accelerated, and the room grew warm. His head spun. “No, no,” he protested. “This must be fiction.”
Mr. Kepelheim crossed to a hand-painted cabinet and withdrew a locked box, which the duke then opened. Drummond removed an etched gold tube and opened its cap. Inside was a rolled document, which he handed to Kepelheim, and the tailor set the ancient scroll before the disbelieving guest. “Read it aloud,” he told him.
Charles scanned through the contents, written in an antiquarian style with quill pen and sealed with a great royal seal, then he read it out for all to hear:
“TO ALL WHO BEAR WITNESS BELOW, it is hereby decreed that the twin sons, Henry Charles the Elder and Henry Edward the Younger, both born on the twenty-first day of September, the year of our Lord, Fourteen Hundred and Twenty, in Calais, France, by the sovereign and most holy body of our most glorious king Henry V, out of the carriage and delivery from the body of his most glorious consort queen, Catherine of Valois, are herein acknowledged to be the sole and rightful heirs to the thrones of England and France, and that through their royal bloodlines, all heirs to their bodies through direct descent, be they male or female, are also proclaimed rightful heirs and princes; to wit, should any heir so wish it, he or she shall immediately be placed upon the throne and crowned sovereign king or queen.
I sign this day, 4, March, the Year of our Lord, Fourteen Hundred and Sixty-One.
Edward IV, Rex.”
Kepelheim continued. “So you see, Charles? It is all true. And you will note, my friend, that this document has also been signed by every king, queen, prime minister, and archbishop since that day. There, near the bottom, you will find Victoria’s signature on 20th June, 1837, the day her reign began.”
The duke looked to his nephew and again at Sinclair. “You two do indeed look like brothers,” he said, “and it is due to your being true cousins, sons of twin mothers. Your mother, Paul, was my sister, but Angela was also my sister. Charles, if you’re wondering how it all works out, Kepelheim has every detail, but my mother died when I was born, and my father remarried in 1835. That wonderful woman was Charlotte MacAllan, only sibling to the Earl of Granndach, and two years after, she gave birth to Angela, the elder twin, and Abigail the younger.
“My father was dying from a disease he’d caught in India, and he wanted to see his daughters married properly before he left this earth, so in January of ’54, Abigail married my closest friend Robert Stuart, whose first wife had died three years earlier. Angela married Robby Sinclair, the young Marquess of Haimsbury one week later. My father died one month after. You and Paul were both born in 1855, just four months apart. That same year, I left to fight Redwing, our common enemy, privately, whilst serving publically in the Crimean War, and I spent many of the years that followed traveling back and forth: Constantinople to Cairo, to Paris, to St. Petersburg, to London, to Glasgow, but I saw you many times, lad. And you and Paul spent Christmases here in ’57 and ’58, though you were quite small then. I’ve kept a few of the drawings you made for me, son. In my scrapbook. I’ll show them to you later. You were quite the budding artist!”
All laughed, and Charles noticed tears at the corners of the duke’s dark eyes.
“When I returned for good in late June of 1860,” Drummond continued, “Haimsbury—your father, Charles—had died in a duel, and your mother had fled, staying briefly here, but then disappearing or possibly taken by Redwing. We had little to go on, to be honest. I searched everywhere for you and your mother, Charles. Everywhere! It nearly drove me mad,” he said, and he paused for a moment to wipe his face. “Two years later, we uncovered evidence that her body and yours had been recovered after a great storm destroyed several ships bound for England, and we were even shown your battered bodies—not a pretty sight, for those bodies, we were told, had washed up on a shore in Ireland more than a year after the ship was said to have gone down and had been exhumed for our identification. We now know all that so-called ‘evidence’ must have been fabricated to obscure the truth, but how were we to know then? We’d tried to protect Angela just as we have Elizabeth, for we knew that any son she bore would be a direct descendent of the Scottish twin, as am I, but there was more to it.
“Your father, Charles, descended from a family that we’ve long suspected might play some part in Redwing’s plans. That foul group has been manipulating bloodlines for many centuries, and the blood of Haimsbury House and the Sinclair family stands as near the top as that of the Plantagenet twins, though we are not sure why.
“And Elizabeth, if you are beginning to make those connexions, my friend and nephew—Charles, our beloved Beth is actually a direct descendant of both twins. Both. That is why we felt certain Redwing would come after her, and since her birth, there have been many attacks upon her life and upon her mind. A son is one thing, but a daughter who descends, if she were to marry a son who is a direct descendant also—any child of that union would be the prize!”
Paul cleared his throat and spoke next. “Charles, my true cousin, my friend. It has always been planned for me to marry Elizabeth, for a number of reasons. Firstly, that she have constant protection by someone within the inner circle, but secondly, through my father, I am the direct descendant of James the Seventh, the last Stuart king. Also, because Uncle James and my father both felt that keeping Elizabeth in the family was the only way to protect her from within. They put her into my arms when she was born, and I was told this beautiful girl was to one day become my wife.”
The duke continued, “But Charles, you are also descended from James the Seventh. Your grandmother, Adelaide Stuart, who married your paternal grandfather, was Robert Stuart’s elder sister.”
“Robert Stuart? Paul’s father, you mean?” Sinclair asked, trying to sort through the names.
The d
uke nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Bobby Stuart and Adelaide were Charles Stuart’s only children. So, you are second in line to inherit the Stuart royal blood, after Paul, and it might even be argued that you are first, since Adelaide was the elder child.”
Charles could not help wanting to scream. “Wait! Wait!” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet. The images of the gypsy dancer and the sound of wolves clouded his mind, and he struggled to concentrate. “This is too much.”
James reached over and touched his nephew’s hand. “Son, it’s clear that you love Elizabeth as much as any of us does. It seems to me that she also cares for you, so it may be something we should consider. Paul, I know that you love Beth, but my granddaughter is old enough to choose her husband, is she not? Should old decisions made when she was but an infant rule her life?”
Aubrey looked uncomfortable, but he nodded. “I want Beth’s happiness above all else. But I also want her to be safe.”
“Then, perhaps, we should consider this new path. Paul, had Charles not been lost, it’s quite possible that he would have been tasked to look after Beth. And now, in a way, it’s come full circle. Charles, do you understand what I mean?”
Sinclair began to understand more than they imagined. “Yes, all right. I believe all this. If true, then because Connor is dead, after you, Uncle, I am the male heir through the elder twin, is that not correct?”
All nodded.
“And as a Sinclair, my blood is also prized by Redwing. And, God forbid, if anything should ever happen to my dear cousin here, I would be the heir to the Stuart dynasty.”
The duke interrupted. “But, Charles, it is possible that to Redwing, you already are the Stuart heir.”
“All right then, for the sake of argument, let us say that I am. Fair enough?”
All nodded once again.
“Then, would it not be madness for me to even contemplate marriage to another Plantagenet heir, especially one descended from both twins?”
Again, all nodded, but the duke interjected, “However, if that means someone we know and can count on would be in a place to keep her safe, then…”
“No!” Sinclair insisted, slamming his fist on the table. “No! I’ve no desire to rule as king, nor I suspect, do you Paul. Why should Elizabeth not live her life as she chooses?”
“Because,” Kepelheim explained, “Redwing will choose for her, if we do not. Your blood is indeed what they most desire, Charles, and wishing it away will not alter that fact. If we had any doubt, then this message removes it,” he said, handing a stained piece of paper to the duke. “We found this in the pocket of the hybrid leader at Branham. All had deformations of some degree or another, but the leader was much larger, and his ears and claws more pronounced. They are wolf creatures, but more advanced than those we saw five years ago. Read the message, sir.”
The duke read it through and then passed it back to the tailor.
Kepelheim explained. “This telegram was sent the very afternoon the Ripper letter was left in Queen Anne House—a letter that so alarmed our dear one that she fled to you, Charles. The message reads: ‘They are on their way. Attack 1800 hours Sunday. No harm to her or to Sinclair. We need his blood.’”
The detective’s face paled. “Ripper,” he muttered. “Elizabeth hinted at this when we met at her London home. She implied that a long ritual encompassed the Ripper’s deeds, but I found it hard to understand.”
“Beth knows some of these truths, Charles,” the duke replied, “but we’ve kept much from her. Despite that, she has discerned far more than even many of our members.”
“I fear she may be right about Ripper,” Sinclair said as pieces began to fit into place. “Uncle James, is it possible that all those murders are but moves in a long, unthinkable game? A game of blood? A ritualistic chess match meant to empower their leaders?”
“We’ve begun to suspect precisely that.” The duke placed his hand on his nephew’s. “But calm your heart, son. I know this must drive fear into your spirit, but trust in the Lord. He gave His blood to save us.”
“But Redwing wants to use our blood to save themselves,” Sinclair answered, his eyes filled with tears. “All those women are dead because of... Because these men want to rule the world. And they would do anything to achieve that, would they not? Even harm Elizabeth?”
“They would. Look what they did to her mother,” Kepelheim observed. “It was their strategy to place poor Patricia in Whitechapel to lure you into their web. They need to match your blood to Elizabeth’s, else their centuries long plans will fail. Why, we are not sure, for it is beyond your connexion to the Stuart line. Something in the Sinclair blood is important to them.”
“My blood?” the detective echoed, standing up. “Mine? Why? She descends already from both twins, why must they add mine to it? Why must Beth live her life in fear of them? And Paul, my friend and true cousin, you could have been killed!” He clutched at his head, which pounded, partly from the whisky he’d been drinking, a spirit he was unaccustomed to, but also from lack of sleep and emotional strain.
The tailor touched Sinclair’s shoulder compassionately. “My dear friend, I fear for you and for her. Redwing will hound you both until you give them what they desire, but I believe that infernal group has underestimated you, Charles Sinclair. And by bringing you back into your rightful family, they may have committed a grave error. I pray it is so. But no matter what you choose to do, Elizabeth will remain in danger until the day Christ calls her home.”
He looked at the tailor, his eyes filled with tears. “Martin, I will gladly give my life, but not hers. Never hers. Is there nowhere she is safe?”
Paul walked around the table and touched his cousin’s shoulder. “Here, Charles. Here. She is safest with us—her family. But first we must find and deal with Trent. He is the primary London leader. He has had unnatural desires for Beth for many years.”
Kepelheim nodded. “Charles, I do not expect you to know this, but we gave aid to a traitor to their mad cause some six years ago, and before he died—for his injuries were extensive—he admitted to us that Sir William’s original plan after murdering Patricia was to keep Elizabeth for himself. That he planned to marry her and force her to bear his child and place that son on the throne of England.”
Charles felt all the blood drain from his face, and he suddenly fell forward, the supporting arms of the duke and his cousin Paul breaking his tumble and keeping him from striking his head on the table.
“Steady!” Aubrey said. “Don’t follow my dizzy path, Cousin!”
Charles felt nauseous, like the world had begun to revolve on a new axis. And perhaps it had.
“If—if,” he stammered, catching his breath, “if this man’s confession is true, is it possible that Trent intended her harm, intended to, to force her that very night?”
He kept picturing Elizabeth, the petite girl of almost eleven years, and how he’d asked her if her stepfather had touched her in any way improper, and she’d said she could not remember, and that she didn’t wish to remember. The animal she spoke of, and the attack she’d suffered when he’d pressed her. He had presumed the head injury had muddled her mind, but what if Trent tried to rape her?
“When,” he began, taking a glass of water from the hands of Kepelheim and swallowing it all down. “When Beth was with me at the station house—whilst we waited for you, Paul—I asked her if William had, well done anything to her. I cannot recall exactly what my words were, and I tried to be gentle, but still get to the truth, for only our doctor could perform an examination to confirm whether or not she had been...forced, and I wanted more information before subjecting her to anything so traumatising as such an examination.”
Paul leaned forward. “What did she say?”
Charles struggled to remember rightly. “She’d suffered a head injury, so she had only a partial memory, but she seemed to have special fear of him. I
did not know the man, but I could tell Beth was terrified by her experience, not only because of her mother, but because he had—I believe he may have tried to do something to her,” he continued, but then suddenly remembering the blood upon the sheets in the cottage Charles realised Trent could not have succeeded, even if he had tried—she had been a virgin, untouched until that night. Until he had…
Charles lowered his head, suddenly feeling very ill.
“Lord Haimsbury, perhaps you are not well enough yet for these revelations,” one of the strangers said, but Charles looked up and waved away the idea.
“No, I can manage, wait...Lord Haimsbury? Who?” Charles asked. “Oh, I suppose you mean me. Yes, I am fine, thank you. Paul, I don’t believe Trent completed his intent, for our police doctor would surely have noticed the, uh, evidence, but it is possible, that evil man may yet intend to fulfill this mad plan to take her as his own.”
“It matters not if he succeeded, Charles. Just knowing he intended it is enough for me. I shall kill William with my bare hands,” Aubrey vowed.
“And mine will be there with yours,” Charles promised, his eyes fixed on his cousin. “We must do all we can to find this devil and bring him to account. Not only for Beth and her mother, but also for my parents. And for your brother, Paul.”
“My brother?” he asked, clearly not following. “What can you mean? Charles, my brother fell off the cliff behind our home. It was an accident.”
Sinclair shook his head. “No, it was not. Not if the farmer’s wife spoke truly. She told me that her mother once served at Briarcliff, and that she followed her mother into service at the castle, and that she was drawing water from your well when she saw it happen. Your water is in a well tower, is it not?”
“Yes. Like many old castles, it is, but ours is one of the few still in use.”
Blood Lies Page 33
