Thomas nodded. “Exactly. The document became irrelevant.”
Wilson seemed to agree. “Unless…”
Thomas’s patience was almost gone. “Unless?”
Wilson looked at Ainsworth. “Would you care to explain this one to His Highness?”
Thomas looked at the other historian.
“Unless Richard of Shrewsbury had already been crowned joint king alongside his uncle.”
At around that time in the restaurant of a luxury hotel in the city of London, a dark-haired man dressed in a fine suit watched from his seat by the window as the distinguished guest sitting seven tables away displayed his discomfort. As the seconds passed, his face became evidently more flushed.
The man was clearly experiencing something of a tightening sensation in the chest region.
He departed unseen just before the sound of a crash attracted the attention of astounded onlookers.
35
For several seconds Thomas said nothing. “How exactly?”
Wilson cleared his throat. “According to the typical history book, on the death of King Edward IV, the throne of England was set to pass to his eldest son and heir, now King Edward V. However, as the new king was only a minor, he would require the assistance of a regent.”
“Richard III,” Thomas said.
“Brother of the late king, at that time Duke of Gloucester and commander of the king’s armies in the north,” Wilson agreed. “Now, as you are undoubtedly aware, Tom, following the death of King Edward IV, preparations were put in place for the coronation of his son, to be crowned King Edward V, with his uncle Richard, Duke of Gloucester, taking on the role of the king’s protector.
“Within a month of his father’s death, the prince had arrived in London to take up residence within the Tower of London – which at the time, of course, was normal, being a royal residence. In June, the king-in-waiting was joined by his younger brother, Richard of Shrewsbury, while the protector continued to make preparations for the young king’s coronation. Yet, within a week, the young boys were declared illegitimate, later confirmed by Act of Parliament.”
“Titulus Regius,” Thomas repeated.
“The very same,” Wilson replied. “You clearly know your family history.”
“Not really. I know the facts, yes, not the reasons.”
“I daresay you are not alone,” Ainsworth said. “Even at the time, the reasons given were weak to say the least.”
“R-remind me. Why were the princes declared illegitimate?”
The man from Magdalen smiled wryly. “Because according to the account of one eyewitness–”
“Stillington,” Wilson said.
“Yes, Stillington, the king had already been married prior to his wedding to Elizabeth Woodville – thus rendering the whole thing null and void.”
The prince knew the gist. “Who was she?”
“Who?”
“The first wife.”
“According to the Croyland Chronicle, of which few copies survive, its author had seen Titulus Regius and made a note of its content. The woman mentioned was Lady Eleanor Talbot,” Wilson said.
Thomas remembered his conversation with his father the day before. “Tell me about her. And who was Stillington?”
“Lady Eleanor Talbot, or Dame Butler, as she was following her marriage,” Ainsworth began, “was a daughter of John Talbot, the 1st Earl of Shrewsbury, and later wife of Sir Thomas Butler, the son of Lord Sudeley. Eleanor was evidently something of a beauty and may have been the mistress of Edward IV.”
“Stillington, on the other hand,” Wilson took over, “was the Bishop of Bath and Wells – and a devout Yorkist. According to the French chronicler and diplomat Philippe de Commines in June 1483, Stillington had presided over the marriage agreement between the king and Eleanor Talbot, thus making the later marriage between Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville null and void.”
“When was the marriage?”
“History is vague on the matter,” Wilson said.
“Talbot herself died in 1468,” Ainsworth said, “so it couldn’t have been recent.”
Thomas scratched his chin. “Why did it take over fifteen years for this to come to light?”
“Because, my dear boy, the case didn’t hold water.”
“You think it was a lie?”
“Of course it was a lie. Henry VII himself repealed the act.”
“You think that Richard III just w-wanted the throne for h-himself?”
Ainsworth leaned back slightly in his chair. “The only possible evidence before 1483 is an event that took place in 1478. Stillington himself spent several weeks in jail during that year, apparently as a result of some association with the king’s brother, the Duke of Clarence–”
“No relation to you, of course, old boy,” Wilson said.
Thomas was aware that Clarence had been executed for conspiring against his brother, Edward IV.
Ainsworth grinned. “It has been suggested that Stillington passed on information about the king’s first wedding to Clarence.”
“If Clarence had still been alive in 1483, wouldn’t that have made him heir?” Thomas asked.
“Yes, it would,” Wilson agreed. “At least after the princes.”
Thomas was starting to become rattled. “This makes no sense; surely there must have been eyewitnesses.”
“There was – Stillington.”
Thomas looked at Wilson. “Any more?”
“No.”
“Hence why it was later repealed,” Ainsworth added. “Stranger still, when the charlatan Lambert Simnel came on the scene in 1487 claiming to be Clarence’s son, Stillington himself became involved in the plot against Henry Tudor.”
Thomas breathed in deeply. He was vaguely familiar with the Simnel fiasco. A charlatan pretending to be the new Earl of Warwick, intent on reclaiming the throne from the Tudor pretender.
Thomas’s attention returned to the document in front of them. “But according to this, Richard of Shrewsbury was still alive?”
“Yes,” Ainsworth agreed, “according to this.”
“You still don’t think that it’s g-genuine?”
“I told you before, it hasn’t been studied in enough detail,” Wilson replied.
“When could the coronation have taken place?”
“Any time,” Wilson replied, “could even have been the same day as Richard III.”
“According to one source, Richard had a second coronation in York.”
Thomas bit his lip. “Wait a moment, the princes were found and buried in Westminster Abbey.”
“No, old boy, two bodies were found and assumed to be the princes, and buried in Westminster Abbey.”
“They certainly fit the profile,” Ainsworth said, “and DNA testing in the 1930s confirmed that the skeletons were of the correct ages.”
“It confirmed the bloodline?” Wilson asked, quite obviously rhetorically.
“You know it didn’t – the technology wasn’t available.”
“Which just about proves my point,” Wilson argued. “The skeletons could be anyone’s.”
Thomas decided to take a backseat as the discussion turned into an academic arm wrestle.
“The casket containing the bodies was discovered just where Thomas More said they were.”
“Actually, the coffin was found where More said it had been originally,” Wilson corrected. “According to More, it was moved outside.”
“Perhaps there was more than one source.”
“All the more reason for doubting.”
“How do you explain the purple velvet that was found in the coffin?”
“There could be a number of reasons.”
Ainsworth was unconvinced. “Purple at the time was the colour associated with the king – you know that.”
“My dear fellow, do use your common sense. For all we know, that piece of velvet could have been put there deliberately so that people would think it was the princes.”
“Then w
hy hide the bodies so well?”
Wilson sought to reply, but the ringing of Thomas’s mobile phone broke his concentration. The prince apologised to both and made his way to the corner of the room.
“Hello?
“Yes…
“What?
“When?”
The prince stuttered uncontrollably.
“Of course…”
Thomas disconnected the call.
“Forgive me, gentlemen, I’m needed back in London.”
Less than five minutes later, Thomas was back in his car, heading east out of Oxford.
As soon as he was in free-flowing traffic out of the city, he selected a call on his mobile phone.
After several rings a voice answered. “Hello?”
“Stephen, we’re needed back in London…
“The Duke of York’s been taken to hospital. They think he’s been poisoned.”
36
To Jen, the next thirty minutes were something of a blur. Incredibly the camera still worked; if it had belonged to who she thought it had once belonged to, it had probably been lying in the vault for almost a year. The battery gauge was flashing red, signalling the charge was almost at an end.
At least this camera took AA batteries.
There were well over a thousand photographs on the memory card, the oldest dating back sixteen months. The earlier ones were of girls and boys, probably aged around fifteen or sixteen, adding weight to her theory that the camera belonged to Debra Harrison. Harrison wasn’t in any of them; most likely she was the person holding the camera. Anthea was in one or two, as were some other girls she hadn’t met. One appeared regularly; Jen assumed it was Stephanie Stanley, Debra’s best friend who had taken the news particularly badly. Jen still hoped to interview her.
At least off the record.
Jen scanned through the majority of the images before returning to the most recent. The last forty were all of St Michael’s; the last twenty inside the vaults.
The final five were all from the Jeffries’ vault. Two of the photos were blurred, but the other three were all clear and sharp. Jen recognised one of the effigies in the middle of the vault, a member of the Jeffries family who had become a Member of Parliament.
After taking in the detail, Jen looked back at the previous thirty pictures, most of which were of the old priory. She was still to see the ruins herself, as technically it was situated on private property.
Evidently, Debra Harrison had been granted quite a privilege.
Five photos were of locations she didn’t recognise. They had definitely been taken somewhere inside the vaults, but she was certain they included nothing she had seen before. As best she could tell, the chamber was larger than the Jeffries’ vault, but also darker. There were several tombs, the designs more elaborate than the ones she had seen so far. On top of each tomb was an effigy: a figure lying on his back and carrying a sword between two closed hands.
Yet it was impossible to see much detail, so bad was the light. Whatever it was, the person who took the photos clearly thought it important enough to capture.
Now Jen had a new theory. Whoever was buried behind the locked door, it probably didn’t include Debra Harrison.
But whoever they were, they certainly weren’t plague victims.
37
Westminster
Thomas and Stephen were back in London by 5pm. On the orders of the palace, they parked Stephen’s car en route before being collected and taken by another car to the King Edward VII’s Hospital Sister Agnes in the city of Westminster.
The hospital was the usual port of call for members of the Royal Family. A smartly dressed nurse in her early forties met them on arrival, and led them through the hospital’s immaculate hundred-year-old corridors to a clean, yet inconspicuous, room on one of the upper floors.
The Duke of York was awake when they entered. A heart monitor was connected to his chest by a series of wires, and oxygen via a tube to his nose. His daughter, seventeen-year-old Princess Caroline, was sitting on the side of the bed, stroking her father’s hand. Surrounding them were several carrier bags and get-well cards.
Thomas hesitated before entering. He felt Stephen’s elbow in his back, forcing him inside. The paper bag in his hand rattled as he scrunched it.
“Hello, Uncle,” Thomas said, slightly nervously. “We’ve b-brought you some grapes, I think.”
There were several others already on his bedside table.
“Yes, bloody good that driver – thinks of everything.”
Thomas smiled, whereas behind him Stephen was laughing loudly. He saw Caroline smile, then the duke himself.
Slowly they approached, both shaking the duke’s hand.
“Hello, Caroline,” Thomas said as they kissed one another on the cheek. “So s-sorry it t-took so long.”
“You missed Fred.”
The Duke of York’s eldest son. “I’m sorry to have m-missed him.” Thomas looked at the duke, then Caroline. “How is he?”
“Not deaf for a start.”
The prince smiled weakly.
“They say it was only a mild one,” York said.
Thomas was concerned. “What? Heart attack?”
“No. Dosage. It was bloody poison; there’s nothing wrong with my bloody heart.”
The duke looked at his daughter.
“Cookie, dear, leave us for a second, will you? I’d like to have a chat alone with the boys.”
The girl seemed slightly put out.
“Quickly now.”
Caroline huffed as she strode indignantly out of the room. The princes watched her depart. Three years had passed since Thomas had last seen her, and clearly much had changed. Her face was prettier, but the weight greater. Her jet-black hair was now down beyond the shoulder, a spitting image of her mother.
Stephen closed the door behind her. “Why Cookie?”
Thomas bowed his head into his hands.
“Because we made her out of baking dough,” the duke said, his eyes on the door. “Is it shut?”
Stephen nodded.
“Good.”
He invited the princes to come closer.
“Not as close as that,” he shouted, placing his hand in front of his face. “There’s nothing wrong with my sense of smell either.”
He turned to Thomas.
“How’s progress?”
Thomas hesitated slightly. “To tell the truth, it’s been quite erratic.”
“What do you mean, erratic?”
“You’re aware, no doubt, of his visit to me in the middle of the night?” Stephen said.
The duke looked at him, slightly disturbed. “Yes, your father did say. I assume this has something to do with the one that got away.”
“Yes,” Thomas said. “Stephen did his b-best with the s-surgery.”
“The bullet had punctured part of the large intestine. It was only a matter of time.”
The duke exhaled furiously. He tried to sit up in his bed. “Help me with this damn pillow.”
Thomas moved the pillow while Stephen grabbed hold of the duke’s hands.
“That’s better,” York said, sitting up. He removed the air supply from his nostrils.
“Is that wise?” Stephen asked.
“You’re the surgeon; you tell me.”
Stephen decided to remain silent.
“One of the phone numbers you faxed through to your father, Thomas, was registered. Rather unexpected, I might add.”
Thomas took a deep breath. “Who?”
“The name Burghart Stanley mean anything to you?”
Thomas shook his head.
“How about Rowland Stanley?”
“Father of the British colonel who defected to the Spanish in 1586.”
“Try more modern.”
“What? The politician?” Stephen guessed.
“The very same. Democrat MP for the constituency of Maplewell in Yorkshire, and leader of the opposition for the past year.”
“Wh-wh
o’s his son?” Thomas asked.
“Former Royal Marine: left eighteen months ago, officially of his own choice, though my sources tell me it was actually due to a breach of discipline.”
“I’m sure his father approved of that,” Stephen said.
York managed a smile. “Now also a politician, though not an MP – at least not yet. Stood as a MEP in the last election, but lost out to the LibDem. Apparently he’s planning on standing for the real thing in Dewsbury, or somewhere of the sort.”
“It’s a place where the party has always been strong,” Stephen said.
The duke was unimpressed. “I never knew we were a county of socialists.”
“It’s really not as bad as that,” Stephen said.
Thomas chose not to respond.
“Even if he wins, they’re still some way short of a majority,” Stephen added.
“Just as they were the first time,” York fired back. He felt a slight twinge as he spoke.
“I’ll get the nurse,” Stephen said.
“Sit down; you’ll do no such thing.” He looked at his nephew, this time more softly. “I’m sorry, boys. Just damn hard luck being tied up like this.”
Thomas nodded. “Of course.”
The duke sipped from a glass of water. “Now then, boys. The question is, why were these phones entrusted to the people you saw? GCHQ have been informed. We’re looking into past conversations.”
He looked at his nephews.
“Who else was there last night?”
“Four in total,” Thomas began. “The butler and the three accomplices.”
The duke nodded, clearly ruing the fact they had got away.
“Any news of the butler?” Stephen asked.
The duke looked at Stephen. “Good question. According to Scotland Yard, he was named Anthony Patterson and had been butler to Sir Jack Talbot for over fourteen years. Prior to that he had served over ten in nick.”
“What for?”
“Murder and arson. Brought about in the last years of the Thatcher government.”
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 22
