Thomas wondered where this was going. As a minor royal he was used to being on the fringe of the ins and outs of royal protocol, but since graduating from Sandhurst, his role had changed beyond recognition.
To the outside world, he was a captain in the army. On the inside, his role had no formal job description.
He was, in the words of his father, the protector.
“Despite our strongest hopes and prayers, the tests proved conclusive,” the King began. “Your grandfather, Tom, was murdered.”
Thomas swallowed, an unavoidable reflex. It took him several seconds to muster a response. “What happened?”
“We don’t know, at least not entirely,” the King said. “According to our only suspect, he was working on behalf of something called the Sons of York.”
The name meant nothing to Thomas.
“Prior to my father’s death, he received this.” He showed Thomas a piece of paper. “Sadly, Father didn’t tell me about it at the time. Unfortunately we have been unable to establish either when or from where it was sent.”
Thomas accepted the paper and scanned the text. It was an A4 sheet and typewritten.
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by these Sons of York
“Shakespeare,” he said. “It’s been changed. These Sons, instead of this s-sun.”
“Exactly.”
The young man was confused. “Who are they?”
The King laughed, only without humour. “Legend has it, letters of this kind have been sent to members of our family throughout history. This is the first I’ve seen.”
The King turned toward the desk.
“Until recently I had no knowledge of the matter whatsoever. In truth, I had believed the stories to be nothing more than a myth. Hard evidence, sadly, is minimal. I discussed the matter a few days ago with your father. Apparently this is the best we have.”
The King picked up two books from his desk and showed them to Thomas. Neither of them was modern.
“According to this,” the King opened the first book to around the midpoint, “published by a local historian in 1712, the writer talks about the existence of the Sons of York as far back as the 1600s. This man, apparently, was their most famous member.”
“Monmouth,” Thomas said, recognising the facsimile of a famous portrait. The man was James Scott, 1st Duke of Monmouth. Illegitimate son of Charles II. As a history graduate, Thomas knew the man had been the chief instigator of the failed Monmouth Rebellion in 1685 against James II.
“Again, your knowledge serves you well. If the writer of the work is to be believed, he had access to rare sources, including those once owned by Monmouth himself. Sadly we are unsure which.”
“Th-they c-could be forgeries.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. From what your father tells me, the originals might have been destroyed in the 1800s. No official reason given. However, according to this second book, apparently one of the Pitts personally saw a copy and found the revelations ‘compromising’.”
The King paused. “A few days ago we received another message.” He picked up a second document from the desk. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the rhyme.”
The King cleared his throat.
“Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,
“Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie,
“When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing,
“Wasn’t that a dangerous dish to set before a king?”
“Dangerous?” the prince interrupted, noticing the obvious change.
“It goes on.” The King passed him the sheet.
Thomas read the content quickly.
The King was in his counting house, counting out his money,
The queens were in the parlour, eating bread and honey,
The princess was in the garden, nattering on her phone,
When down came a blackbird and pecked off her nose.
They sent for the duke’s doctor,
Who sewed it on again;
He sewed it on so neatly,
The seam was never seen.
“The ending is new.”
“No,” the King corrected. “Just less common.”
“The duke’s doctor.”
“Right. That has changed.”
The prince read it again. “Here. The maid was in the garden.”
“Yes. That has also changed.”
Thomas read it through several times. Suddenly it struck him.
“Queens,” he said. “Not one queen. Two.”
The King took a deep breath. “I think it’s referring to my wife and mother.”
Thomas was speechless. The king’s wife had died three years ago, within a year of the king’s mother.
“Eating bread and honey?”
The King closed his eyes, an extended pause. “Mother was found in the pantry. Matilda in the lounge. The official diagnosis for both was food poisoning.”
Thomas nodded, trying his best to remain calm. As a royal, he remembered the deaths of his aunt and grandmother well. The official verdict on their deaths was illness, but he knew the true cause remained unsolved.
“Which king?” Thomas asked.
“What?”
“The king in the c-counting house. Which k-king?”
“In the original rhyme I believe it might have been Henry VII. Famed administrator.”
The King looked again at his desk. “Which reminds me. According to your father, the two books have one thing in common. Apparently both make reference to the same source.”
The King opened the second book and showed Thomas the line of relevance. “According to the book, the source in question was something called the Ravensfield Chronicle. Does this mean anything to you?”
Thomas read the page in its entirety before responding. “No. But I have heard of this.” He pointed to another part of the page. “The Croyland Chronicle. Written in 1486. B-banned by order of Henry VII.”
The King let out a rare smile. “Once again, you never cease to amaze me with your knowledge.”
“You ask of me only to be a historian?”
The King delayed his response. “If only it were that simple.”
He picked out two more papers of relevance from the pile on his desk and immediately set about organising them.
“Since the 1700s, many people have been intrigued, apparently, with the legend of the Sons of York. In recent years it has apparently become something of an obsession for the revisionist historian.”
The King showed him the two newest papers. Both were Internet printouts.
“According to your father, the two books I’ve just shown you could well be the only two in existence that offer anything remotely interesting on the Sons of York. Interestingly, both books were published posthumously and were incomplete at the time their authors died. Even more bizarre, the authors died in peculiar circumstances. Furthermore, both were historians living in the north of England.”
Thomas accepted the printouts and read them quickly. Both were Dictionary of National Biography overviews of the authors’ lives.
Both had apparently been murdered.
“According to Bridges, the possibility of a connection between the two politicians and my father cannot be ruled out. If our friar friend is telling the truth, we must also consider the possibility that there is a connection between these as well.”
Thomas was practically speechless. “These go back centuries.”
“As I say, Thomas, all we have is speculation,” the King said. “But I must confess this is not totally new. I remember a number of years ago I brought up the subject with my uncle Albert. Apparently my grandfather believed in their historicity…according to Uncle Albert, they were none too pleased with his controversial marriage.”
The young man was captivated. “You b-believe they exist? And have done throughout h-history?”
The King’s expression was grave. “All I know to be true, Tom, is that two politic
ians have been murdered, and the only evidence we have is from the ravings of a Dominican friar who, according to Bridges, is madder than the Mad Mahdi.”
It was clear that the King’s joke was not intended to be humorous. “You believe him to be genuine?”
“Ever since my father died, I’ve had people telling me one thing, and others telling me something else. Two months ago, in all honesty, I would most probably have ignored the lot of them. Yet that was before I became king.”
The young man bit his lip. “I suppose s-satisfactory diplomacy leads one to sometimes forego the opinion of one’s own gut.”
The King laughed to himself. “Yes, it certainly feels that way.”
The prince looked again at the printouts, then at the King. “Wh-what exactly did my father say?”
“Frankly, he seemed equally disturbed by the matter. Disturbed, or at least, perplexed. Without question, something relating to the Sons of York is factual. What are less clear are the identities of the people behind them.”
The King looked at his nephew, this time more seriously. “In truth, I was hoping these tests might have put the matter to bed.”
The young man understood the significance. “You believe that the p-politicians were killed by a man who b-believes himself to be a m-member?”
“Our friend is currently being held in our most secure location. If he is as mad as they say he is, then surely you won’t learn much from him.
“But even if our friend does decide to keep mum, it is here,” the King said, pointing to the pile of papers and books on his desk, “where the trail seems to be at its warmest.
“What I must ask of you, is to find out just how warm it is.”
Thomas left the study and headed through the grounds of the palace.
“Thomas!”
He heard someone shout his name as he headed for the car. An elderly man was waiting for him by the gate, his entry denied by the palace guards.
Thomas swore under his breath. “For crying out loud.”
“Unhand me,” the old man said to the well-presented guard currently depriving him of entry. “I am the Earl of Somerset.”
Thomas took a deep breath and gestured toward the guard. “It’s okay. He’s allowed in the grounds.”
The old man pushed aside the guard and headed along the pathway toward the prince. He wore a monocle over his right eye, partially obscuring the larger of his deep blue eyes, which was scarred beneath the lid. His white hair had almost completely thinned on top, the rest flanking a round head that had seen over eighty winters.
“The Sons of York are one of the most dangerous societies known to man,” the old man said, struggling to keep pace. “Their influence spans far and wide; you underestimate them at your peril.”
Thomas shook his head, doing his best to ignore him. He knew the man well, and had done his entire life. To the wider world he was James Gardiner. Earl of Somerset and brother of the late queen.
Also former tutor to the prince.
“Not now, Jim,” Thomas said, heading toward the car.
“So you keep saying…Tom, you must listen.”
“You know you’re not supposed to be here. My uncle won’t be pleased if he finds you.”
The old man was getting het up. “You never change, you know. You’re always the same, always incapable of looking beyond the end of your own nose.”
“Later, Jim.”
Gardiner shook his head while he muttered under his breath.
Not for the first time, the boy refused to listen.
10
Jen waited until closing time before leaving her seat at the bar. She said goodnight to Brian and Gavin, tentatively agreeing that she would see them again the following evening.
In truth, she had enjoyed the evening. Without question, the harmless banter of the locals made a refreshing change from interviewing relations of victims and hunting for memorial stones. She knew that their accounts of people and events could be subject to inaccuracy – both of them were pissed come closing time – but she was satisfied their stories were worth following up.
Even if they were wrong, during the final hour she had learned of some useful contacts. Helen Cartwright, supposedly Debra Harrison’s favourite teacher. Francis Lovell, full name Francis Lovell the 23rd, another man of long ancestry and with another bizarre nickname, the Dog. Apparently he was something of a character, until four years ago headmaster of St Joseph’s, now retired.
Thanks to Hancock, she had also obtained an address for Rankin’s mother, Susan Rankin, an emotionally drained widow still coming to terms with the loss of her only son. She knew from her producer that Rankin had declined the opportunity to be interviewed as part of the documentary; hardly surprising given her son was the chief suspect – the only suspect – regarding Debra Harrison’s disappearance. Jen knew that following up that lead would be a risk, but she decided it was worth it.
After all, she reminded herself, her job was to document the facts, not to take sides.
She walked up the stairs and continued along the landing. The hallway was quiet, with no obvious signs of life from inside any of the rooms. According to Tara, there were four guests in total.
For all she knew, she was the only one.
She entered her room and closed the door behind her. The lateness of the hour and the effects of a long day’s work were finally catching up with her.
She was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
Outside the Hog, the young brown-haired girl watched as the light came on in one of the upstairs rooms. She’d heard rumours that day of a newcomer in the village, following in the footsteps of a year ago. Though she was still to see the woman herself, the facts didn’t seem out of place. It was just like a year earlier.
History repeats itself.
She waited until the light went out again before making her way down the footpath toward the old part of the village.
11
Less than an hour after leaving the palace, Thomas had reached his destination. Though the King had been unspecific in telling him where the prisoner was being held, he knew from experience there was only one such place.
It was the same place where traitors to the Crown had always been held.
He breathed in deeply, attempting to rid himself of the feeling of claustrophobia as he waited for the lift to reach its destination. As the doors opened, he saw before him a lengthy silver corridor, its appearance uncannily reminiscent of a top-secret nuclear facility.
Two burly men had been placed on the doors, standing rigidly to attention. Like their colleagues above the surface, they were dressed in the typical undress uniform of a Yeoman Warder: dark blue with red trimmings, including the symbol of the Crown and the letters SIIR, denoting the reign of the present monarch, Stephen II. Like all Yeomen Warders, they were NCOs and had previously served over twenty-two years in the British Army.
But unlike their colleagues above ground, both men carried L85A2 automatic weapons.
The standard weaponry of the British Army.
Both Beefeaters turned to face the prince and immediately saluted. Without further word, the Beefeater on the left escorted Thomas to the end of the corridor and inserted an eight-digit pin into the keypad on reaching a metal door.
This was the most exclusive part of the Tower of London: a secure facility known as the Cromwell Tower, named in honour of its creator. Unlike the building above, the facility did not appear on the itinerary of any guided tour. Indeed, its existence was known only to a select few.
He was among the select.
Thomas waited for the door to open, and was immediately greeted by a man of imposing features, measuring six foot three with red hair and a matching goatee. His appearance was impeccable, typical of an officer. Thomas knew the man well, and had done for years.
He was the Constable of the Tower of London, a position of rare privilege. He was Sir Thomas Edmondes, Chief Yeoman Warder.
The man saluted. “Good evening,
Captain.”
The prince returned the salute. “Before I joined the army, I would never have believed such a p-place to be p-possible.”
Edmondes led the way along the next corridor, its appearance in keeping with the one before. “The less public exposure a man like Morris receives, the better,” the Constable of the Tower began. “I’ve tried interrogating him myself several times; the man seems to be a complete lunatic.”
The statement matched the rumours. “What of his background?”
“Prior to recent days, practically nothing. He’s former military, almost certainly a professional assassin. It isn’t every day you find someone who’s taken monastic orders who has the ability to administer explosives to a government vehicle and detonate it.”
“Any progress on determining the s-substance?”
“Tests are ongoing.”
“He’s said nothing of his background or training?”
Edmondes shook his head. “No. But madman or not, his expertise is far ranging. And if correctly driven, most profitable.”
“You believe him to be a h-hired assassin?”
“In truth, we don’t know. His answers have been peculiarly ambiguous – quite obviously rehearsed. At this stage, nothing can be taken for granted.”
They reached another metal door, which Edmondes opened using a code. This was the quietest part of the facility. Another smaller corridor followed: its walls painted grey, with the lack of light adding to the gloom. Even from the doorway, Thomas could sense the depression. It was as if something lingered in the air.
The cumulative result of the building’s history.
Edmondes led Thomas to the second door on the left, visually a large sheet of reinforced steel. The door opened electronically as Edmondes placed his palm into the scanner, revealing a small desolate room, partitioned into two by metal railings.
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 6
