The Plantagenet Vendetta

by John Paul Davis

  That made sense, despite knowing little for sure of the area’s history. Nevertheless, the castle intrigued her. Though only a few minor walls survived, the outline remained visible.

  She approved of the setting.

  Even the village’s bloody history had been integrated well with the present.

  The path forked, giving them the option of left or right.

  “That’s the lane what leads to all the posh houses,” Anthea said, gesturing to the right. “It’s this way to the bridge.”

  Staying to the left, Anthea led the way. After walking for another two hundred metres the railway bridge came into view, along with the former station in the distance.

  “This is where he was found, apparently,” Anthea said, pointing to the bridge. It was obvious to Jen that the place gave Anthea goose bumps.

  Jen stopped to take a photo of the bridge on her iPhone before continuing toward it. It was arch shaped, redbrick and dilapidated. Her footsteps echoed as she walked beneath the arch. Although she knew they were her own, the heavy repeated thud unnerved her slightly. Worse still was the darkness. It was brilliantly light outside, the time just before 3pm, but the area beneath the bridge was nothing but a long void. There was a strong sense of loneliness and foreboding about the place that left her feeling uneasy.

  Jen returned to the entrance and looked up at the top of the arch. She estimated there was a drop of some ten metres from the top of the bridge to the ground.

  She walked to her left, following the footpath, and then left again after about ten metres, taking a scenic route through some wild flowers up the hill to where the railway line had once existed.

  “Be careful.”

  Jen looked back. Anthea was standing near the bottom of the bridge, clearly reluctant to get any nearer.

  Jen lost her footing, but managed to stay on her feet. The ground leading up to the top of the bridge was steep, the grass rugged throughout.

  At least the long stems gave her something to grab onto.

  She succeeded in getting to the summit, at which point the grass was far shorter. She now had two choices, left or right. She looked to her right. Some two hundred metres away, she could see a derelict building surrounded by shrubbery.

  She sighed. Over fifty years after the event, the former station remained a visual reminder of the Beeching Axe.

  Jen made her way left, heading toward the bridge. The imprints of the former rail tracks were evident in the mud, becoming less obvious on the bridge itself, where weeds and stinging nettles were growing profusely. Moss infiltrated the gaps between the brickwork, while the bricks themselves were decorated by random graffiti. Reference to the band Velvet Underground confirmed her suspicion that none of it was recent.

  She continued all the way to the wall on the left, and leaned over the side. Anthea was standing below her, looking up nervously. She smiled and waved up to Jen, who smiled back.

  Jen felt the side of the bridge with her hands before investigating the other side.

  Once finished, she looked down again at Anthea. “He definitely hanged himself?”

  The girl nodded.

  Jen pursed her lips. Although the wall was made up of hundreds of bricks, there was not an obvious place for the rope to be tied.

  Jen took some more photos on her iPhone before heading back down the slope. She made it most of the way before slipping near the end. Anthea came to meet her, struggling not to laugh.

  Jen accepted the girl’s outstretched hand. “Thanks.”

  “Can we get out of here?”

  They returned along the path in the opposite direction, and headed left on reaching the fork. The muddy pathway widened as they walked, eventually developing into a small road lined by several large houses.

  “Lovell lives along here,” Anthea said, gesturing somewhere to the left. “I’ll show you.”

  The houses on both sides were secluded by a profusion of trees and thick vegetation, prohibiting observation from outsiders. Every so often the greenery would open up, revealing large metal gateways that guarded long, winding driveways.

  The setting partially matched what Jen had imagined, but never before had she seen anything so private. She’d learned from her evening in the Hog that there were fifteen houses in total, but that wasn’t obvious from walking in the road. For all she knew there could be hundreds, thousands or maybe just a handful. There were no addresses, no house names or numbers decorating the gateways…

  Stranger still was the quietness – even compared to what she had just experienced.

  For all she knew, she had slipped back in time.

  Lovell’s house was just ahead on the left. As best Jen could tell from spying through the gate, the building was a period house, perhaps Elizabethan, perhaps older, and surrounded by several acres of woodland. A large double garage was attached to the house.

  From her vantage point there was no way of knowing whether anyone was at home.

  Anthea approached the intercom. “You best let me do the talking. People round here are a bit suspicious of outsiders.”

  Jen nodded. If anything, the comment seemed an understatement.

  Someone answered, a woman’s voice. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mrs Lovell, it’s Anthea Brown here.”

  “Hello, Anthea.”

  The voice was noticeably grand.

  “Is Dr Lovell there, please?”

  “He went out a few hours ago; I’m afraid he’ll be quite some time yet.”

  Jen was disappointed.

  Anthea replied, “Okay, thanks.”

  They started back the way they came.

  “Who are these people?” Jen asked, distracted by the setting. The high level of privacy was starting to intrigue her.

  “Most on this side are lawyers,” Anthea said, gesturing to the left. “A couple at the top of the road are politicians.”

  “What party?”

  “Democrat.”

  Jen raised an eyebrow. Originally named the Whigs and dating back to around 1678, the Democrat Party had since developed into the second strongest party in the UK. After winning one election, they were now in opposition to the Tories.

  “Anyone famous?”

  “Yeah, a few.” Anthea pointed to another house. “That’s where Rowland lives.”

  “Stanley?” Jen said, amazed.

  Rowland Stanley was the new leader of the Democrat Party.

  Hence also the leader of the opposition.

  Anthea nodded. “His niece lives next door to him.”

  It took a few seconds for the penny to drop. “Stephanie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Debra Harrison’s best friend?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Debra’s best friend was Rowland Stanley’s niece.”

  “Yeah.”

  Jen was speechless. She hadn’t picked up on that at all.

  They passed another gateway on the right. “That’s where Lord Ratcliffe lives. Sir William lives next door.”

  As she passed Catesby’s house, she heard something coming from the grounds.

  “Is that…chickens?”

  “Yeah. He keeps other birds as well.”

  Jen loitered, distracted. The sound of clucking had got progressively louder.

  “What does he do? Catesby?”

  “He owns a farm. His estate is massive. I think he used to be a scientist of some sort.”

  Jen was interested. She tried to look through the gate, but as with the others, the shrubbery restricted her view. Next on from the Catesby estate, she briefly saw another house largely hidden by greenery. It was grand, even compared to those she had just seen. The only visible areas were the upper two storeys.

  She saw a figure at one of the windows.

  “What’s that?”

  “Wootton Court. It’s really old.”

  Jen recognised the name; she’d seen a print of it in her room.

  “Who lives there?”

  Anthea glanced to her right. “Th
at’s Lord Jeffries. He’s a bastard.”

  Jen laughed, confused by what Anthea had meant. She looked back over her shoulder and shuddered. Even though they were well past the house, the sight of the silhouette at the window had made her uneasy.

  “Who is he?”

  “Apparently he’s a lord of some description. Being honest, I don’t know much about him.”

  “Why’s he a bastard?”

  She shrugged. “I dunno, he just is.”

  “Has he lived around here long?”

  “Yeah, years and years and years. Apparently he’s another one who goes back to the Middle Ages. It’s him that owns the castle.”

  That interested her.

  “Has he always had that name? It just doesn’t sound medieval.”

  Anthea shrugged. “As far as I know. I mean, he has a title, emblem, you know, all the works. When I was at school everyone used to call him Lord Broomshoot.”

  Jen was confused. “Isn’t that a flower?”

  “Yeah, it’s his symbol.”

  “And they’ve always lived in Wootton?”

  Anthea nodded and pointed up ahead. “Most of them are buried in there.”

  At the end of the lane, they rejoined the path. The church was now visible above the brow of the hill. Thinking about it, Jen didn’t recall seeing anyone of that name in the churchyard.

  “They’re definitely buried there?”

  “Yeah,” Anthea said, emphasis on the yeah. “There’s lots of broomshoots in the cemetery.”

  21

  Richmond Park, London

  The journalist paused on reaching the Isabella Plantation and looked to his left and right.

  The scenery was picturesque, but distracting. Everywhere he looked he saw exotic flowers: purple, pink and violet lighting the way like a rainbow.

  He started again and stopped, now seriously confused. Richmond Park is officially the largest of London’s royal parks, but it was also the one he knew least well. The instructions he had received earlier that day had been unspecific, but even if he had been given precise directions, following them to the letter would have been almost impossible.

  Navigating the 2,300-acre park without a map was like being lost in a maze.

  He made it over one of the many footbridges that crossed one of the streams and continued through the woodland.

  At that moment his mobile phone began to ring. Momentarily stunned, he looked around in every direction before accepting the call.

  “Yes?”

  “Keep heading to your left.”

  The call terminated immediately, increasing his sense of unease. The feeling of being watched was growing on him, intensified by the unfamiliar surroundings. The sounds on this side of the water were different. The voices of nature had become progressively louder, particularly the echo of hooves.

  He figured he was getting close to the deer park.

  Apprehensively he followed the caller’s instructions, taking him off the path. Fifty metres on, he saw a bench, one of many.

  But the first he’d seen occupied.

  The man was old. His skin sagged slightly around his clean-shaven mouth, whereas the rest of his face was hidden behind large sunglasses. He wore a yellow raincoat, despite the fine weather, hiding a smart suit.

  The journalist sat down beside him, waiting for some form of acknowledgement. On closer inspection he saw something beneath the man’s right eye.

  A scar of some description.

  “You understand the penalty should you have been followed?”

  The journalist felt his breathing sharpen. “What the bloody hell is this all about?”

  The old man folded his arms. “You’ve been writing about the murder of the politicians.”

  His articles were common knowledge. “What of it?”

  Again the man didn’t reply straight away. He merely looked directly forward.

  “You’ve also been speculating about the death of His Majesty the King.”

  Again the man was speechless. “And?”

  “What would you say if I were to tell you that your suspicions are not far wrong?”

  The journalist’s unease was becoming ever greater. “Look, why did you bring me here?”

  The old man looked at him for the first time. “Because there are some people among the royals who fail to look beyond the end of their bloody noses.”

  Thomas was speechless. As expected, the house concealed its fair share of nooks and crannies, but what they hid was something else.

  He removed his iPhone from his pocket and called both Bridges and his father.

  22

  The sun was still out at 5:30, despite the gathering dark clouds in the distance. The weather was warm, the faintest touch of wind providing relief from the humidity.

  For the last two hours Jen had been alone. After passing the castle and saying goodbye to Anthea, she revisited the church and after that the churchyard.

  She sat quietly on a wooden bench situated in the highest part of the graveyard. Until now she hadn’t realised just how many graves there were – several hundred at least. Most dated from the 1800s, the writing on most now illegible. A large statue of the Angel Gabriel had been erected close to where she sat, dedicated to the memory of those lost in the two great wars.

  Most of the graves close by belonged to war veterans.

  Further to her right, the ruins of the old priory stood prevalently behind the wall that surrounded the presbytery. This was the first time she had seen the ruins properly. Strangely they were not open to the public, unlike most. A large archway, probably once a doorway, was laden in ivy and surrounded by three walls, all containing the shapes of smaller archways where windows would once have been.

  She guessed she was looking at the old dormitories.

  A small animal, probably a fox, was sniffing around the ruins, climbing on one of the walls and staying perfectly still for several seconds. For what seemed like an age, Jen merely sat and watched, simply taking it all in. As a young girl, her parents always took her to visit old ruins. Her grandmother, bless her, was just as passionate. For the first time in a long time, her mind recalled that ancient time: the sights, the smells, the touch, the feelings…life really was simpler back then.

  Somehow, it seemed like a different lifetime.

  Her second visit to the church had been pleasant, but so far not particularly useful. On exploring the interior, she noticed things she hadn’t taken in the first time, but nothing of any connection to Debra Harrison or the families of prominence.

  The biggest surprise was the lack of recognition for the Jeffries family – if that was indeed their real name. According to Anthea, the family had been a central fixture in Wootton’s past, but the physical evidence so far didn’t back that up. Lovells, Catesbys, and Ratcliffes were particularly prominent as she already knew – there were even more buried in the Lady chapel. On initial inspection, there wasn’t a single Jeffries buried in the cemetery.

  Strange, considering Anthea had said there were lots of them buried there.

  A large, thick, white cloud moved in the western sky, allowing the sun to shine through more brightly. Not for the first time that day Jen regretted not having her sunglasses. Shielding her eyes, her attention turned further to the right, to a series of tombstones beneath an old oak tree. The tree was large, easily the biggest in the churchyard, and heavily branched on either side.

  Jen rose to her feet and ventured closer, using her outstretched arms to move the branches. There were six tombstones in all, five looking small and bare, and one much larger and surrounded by iron fencing. Four magpies were perched at the top of it, the largest gathering she had ever seen of that type. Almost immediately two flew off, giving rise to an angry shouting match as they rose into the yellowy sky.

  She circled the tomb, looking for any form of writing. She guessed from the style that it was at least three hundred years old, perhaps older.

  Finally she found an inscription – the langu
age unmistakeably Latin. As she translated the words in her mind, she realised it was not a tomb but a memorial, shaped in the style of an urn. A large crest marked part of the upper portion, followed by a list of names.

  According to the inscription, it had been put up to honour the Yorkists who fell fighting in the Wars of the Roses. Several names were present, many of the same family.

  Suddenly she was confused. Although the wording dated the monument to the 1880s, unless her eyes were deceiving her, the leading name was Plantagenis.

  She laughed to herself, almost in wild amazement.

  “Found a long-lost relative?”

  The voice came from the lichgate to her left. She heard the sound of the gate closing, followed by footsteps.

  A man had appeared, his features veiled in the sunlight. As the figure approached, she could make out he was about six feet in height, with a strong build and good posture.

  Jen emerged from behind the branches, trying hard not to embarrass herself escaping the foliage. Inevitably, she failed, catching about a dozen leaves in her new haircut as she caught her head against the branch.

  The young man laughed at her. “Believe me, sweetheart, I’ve done the same thing many a time – looking for my long-lost relatives.”

  Jen laughed – it was either that or cry. She brushed the leaves out of her hair, worried about the state of her appearance. “I bet not within three hours of having it cut.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  Jen looked at the man, studying his appearance. He had fair hair, not quite Swedish or German, but a light shade of blond. He was clean-shaven, including the sideburns, and had bright blue eyes.

  “I hope you found him, anyway. Your relative.”

  Jen smirked, the sarcasm evident.

  If he had been a relation, that would make me the queen.

  “I’m not local,” she said. “I’m from London.”

  “London. So that’s the noise what’s been coming out your mouth?”

  Jen placed her hands to her hips. The man was evidently from Yorkshire, his accent slightly softer than most she had heard recently. She guessed his age was mid-to-late twenties, perhaps the same as her.