The Plantagenet Vendetta

by John Paul Davis

  “I’ve known it ever since I was a small boy. It used to be Dominican, you know and before that Augustinian: first built in 743AD, one of the oldest in Yorkshire.”

  “Was it important?”

  “I’d say not, at least compared to the great and nearby abbeys of Fountains and St Mary’s. It never had more than thirty friars living there at any one time.”

  Jen made a mental note, but wasn’t convinced it was particularly relevant.

  “How about the castle?”

  “Oh, goodness gracious, you have been busy. The castle was once an absolute treasure trove – and still there is much to be investigated by the archaeologist.”

  “Who owned it? Originally, that is?”

  “Originally it was built by William II, son of the famous Conqueror. Later it was owned by the de Vaullis family, prominent Norman noblemen.”

  Jen was more interested in the later period. “Where were they buried? I didn’t see anything in the vault.”

  “Ah, you wouldn’t. You see, the vault only dates from about 1540.”

  She bit her lip. “Who owned the castle after the…what were they called?”

  “De Vaullis,” he said. “They lost the castle and their inheritance for fighting for Simon de Montfort in the Second Barons’ War. Following that, the castle spent several decades as a royal castle before it was given away by one Edmund of Langley, second youngest of the sons of Edward III, to one of his…one of his…”

  “Illegitimate sons.”

  “Quite right.”

  Jen smiled; she had learned as much from the vicar at Bishopton. “I saw a Plantagenet monument in the graveyard; I assumed there was a connection.”

  The man was gobsmacked. “What frightening powers of observation you have. There is only one such example in the entire five-village area.”

  To Jen, that definitely made it more significant. “Then what happened?”

  “The castle was destroyed at the culmination of the Wars of the Roses,” the man replied. “It was Henry VII’s intention, you know, that no physical creation would remain of connection to the House of York…apart from his wife, of course.”

  She grinned. “I understand your family traces its own history back to that time.”

  “You know, I do believe a link in the chain can be found going back all the way to King David of Jerusalem…that is a fabrication, of course…” the man was practically beaming, “but I am sure a more accurate representation exists of my forebears going back at least to the reign of King Henry I.”

  “Wow. Did you research this yourself?”

  “Ah, I cannot deny I owe much to the endeavours of my forebears…not to mention my noble cousins Catesby and Ratcliffe.”

  “I understand your families once filled the entire government.”

  The man laughed. “Something of an exaggeration, I think, but the famous rhyme of Collingbourne was not without accuracy. It is because of my famous ancestor, I owe my own nickname, the Dog.”

  “How well do you know the Jeffries family?”

  “I should say I’ve known them my entire life. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason, I was just visiting the vaults beneath the church the other day. I’ve never seen such elaborate tombs.”

  “Nor, I’m sure, will you see any finer. They are the hallmarks of one of the most distinguished families ever to grace our green and pleasant land.”

  “When I was visiting the vault, I noticed there was a door; I assume there is a second part of the vault.”

  The man nodded sombrely. “That would be the one leading to the crypt of Lord Edward.”

  “Lord Edward?”

  The waitress returned to collect Lovell’s plate. “Would you like any dessert?”

  “My dear, I have deliberately saved room for Mrs Mitchell’s exquisite apple pie.” He looked at Jen. “My dear, you must try some.”

  Jen accepted without argument.

  “Who was Lord Edward?” Jen asked once the waitress had left. Aside from them, the dining room was now practically empty.

  Though she assumed Lovell’s voice travelled much further afield.

  “Lord Edward was a noble companion of the Duke of Monmouth and an heir to the throne in his own right.”

  “How exactly?”

  “Well, Monmouth himself was a bastard of Charles II, or so we believe – you must forgive me, Miss Farrelly, for my vulgarity.”

  A wry smile.

  Lovell continued, “Lord Edward, on the other hand, we know even less of his parentage. His mother, we know, was one Mary Jeffries, eldest daughter of the previous Jeffries. Now, according to some, Lord Edward was the illegitimate son of one of our neighbours; however, there was an even stronger rumour that he was Monmouth’s half brother.”

  Jen raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”

  “Following Monmouth’s execution, in the eyes of their followers, Edward was now the rightful king.”

  The arrival of the apple pie delayed her next question.

  Lovell took his first bite. “My dear, exquisite as always.”

  Jen tapped the pastry with her spoon. Her thoughts returned to the burial records at Bishopton. The Latin, Rex Angliae, was mentioned next to an E Jeffries, the dates matching what Lovell had explained.

  “This is delicious,” she said, tasting the apple pie. The hot sugary pastry nearly took off the inside of her cheeks before it slowly melted in the mouth.

  “Speciality of the house, one of many I can assure you.”

  She didn’t doubt it. “What happened to him? Lord Edward?”

  “Executed on the orders of the usurpers, William and Mary.”

  She detected bitterness on the word usurpers, if that was the right word.

  “And he is now buried in the vaults of St Michael’s?”

  Lovell nodded, his mouth full.

  “Is the crypt not open to the public?”

  “Alas, no, for you see, the people of Yorkshire are most superstitious.”

  Jen raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, I’m not following.”

  “I’m quite sure that you are not, as an outsider – unfamiliar with local customs – it would be impossible to understand fully. You see, Lord Edward was a particularly violent man, and due to his position of such prominence, he was sentenced to a similarly appropriate execution.”

  “You mean he was hung, drawn and quartered?”

  “Precisely. However, Lord Edward’s execution was particularly grisly. His head was placed on a pike on one of the bridges of London, while the rest of him was scattered among the four corners of the kingdom.”

  “Okay.” She was determined not to be put off her food.

  “After a period of several months, his eldest son returned to the family estate at Wootton having successfully accomplished his ambition of collecting every part of his father’s body except, of course, the head. His remains were placed in the family vault, and for several weeks, so the story claims, rested peacefully. It was after that, however, a peculiar series of events occurred, which has given rise to Wootton’s greatest legend.”

  “What is that?”

  “The legend of the Barghest.”

  Jen’s hand stopped just before the fork reached her mouth. “The what, sorry?”

  “The Barghest is a legendary creature, a bit like the beast of Bodmin. According to accounts from the late 1680s, the Wootton Barghest was first seen on a wet November night by the innkeeper of this very location. Over the next few weeks, the beast was seen by no fewer than twelve independent eyewitnesses. Well, you can just imagine the commotion, can’t you? Villagers were afraid to travel alone after sundown.”

  Jen took the last bite of apple pie. “Forgive me, I don’t see how this is connected to Lord Edward. You seem to be suggesting that they believed he was a monster.”

  “Indeed they did, right or wrong, I cannot tell you. What you must remember is that their world was most different to ours. Folklore was still prominent, despite the advances in science. The beast c
aptured the imagination of the public, and many believed it to be the tormented spirit of Lord Edward.”

  Jen accepted the reasoning. “What happened?”

  “According to an account written by the parish vicar, from January 1689, the beast, after being spotted in local woodland, was set upon by the villagers. The contents of the grave were blessed and perhaps burned, accounts vary, and finally a wall was built around the late Edward’s tomb.”

  Jen sipped slowly from her wine. It was a good yarn, no doubt, but the story made little sense. “Has anyone ever been inside to check?”

  “I assure you they have not – the key has been missing since the early days.”

  She didn’t buy it. “Why was there a door included at all if it was meant to be sealed in?”

  “A most excellent point. Against the wishes of the majority, Edward’s son wished to be buried in the crypt. After his death, the wall behind the door was apparently filled in.”

  Jen took a deep breath but for now remained silent.

  The idea beggared belief.

  “Wow, I’ve certainly learned a thing or two about the history of Wootton-on-the-Moor.”

  The former headmaster laughed. “I assure you, you haven’t even scratched the surface. Away from the folklore, I think you’ll find that history is indeed more fascinating than myth.”

  The waitress returned with the bill.

  “I must offer to pay for that delicious dessert.”

  “Nonsense, my dear, nonsense, you’ve truly made an old man’s evening.”

  Jen smiled. She placed her handbag over her shoulder. “Surely there is something I can do to show my appreciation.”

  “How are you fixed tomorrow?”

  She shrugged.

  “There is a fine display of medieval keepsakes at the heritage centre. What say the two of us have a morning of real history?”

  She didn’t know what to say. “Thanks, I really can’t think of anything else I’ve got on.”

  They left the dining room and returned to the bar area. Lord Ratcliffe was standing by the counter.

  “Ey up, Francis, does Alma know?”

  Lovell clapped his hands together, a loud swift bang. “My dear Richard, please assure me your discretion. I fear the shock would very near kill her, and that me.”

  The politician laughed. “Come with us to the back room. I’ve just got William a brandy.”

  Lovell turned to face Jen. “My dear, I’m afraid I must humour the fellow. To say no to the Rat would be like saying yes to an Alsatian, with something more valuable than money, I might add.”

  Ratcliffe laughed loudly.

  “My dear, it’s been a pleasure.” He kissed her on the hand.

  Jen fought a blush, but failed. “Thank you, I really enjoyed it.”

  Jen left the Hog and walked quickly across the bridge. It was after eight, and the sun was still up, the fading light flickering behind the hill.

  She called Anthea on her iPhone.

  “Can you meet me on the bridge? Thanks.

  “Oh, and bring your mum’s keys.”

  Back inside the Hog, Lovell sat down in between Catesby and Ratcliffe. Three large brandies were placed on the table in front of them. With the door closed, the conversation would remain private.

  “Was she the one you saw on the camera?”

  Lovell exhaled lengthily. “I’m afraid so.”

  Catesby wrapped his large fingers around the glass. “That is a pity.”

  Lovell nodded. “And she was such a nice girl, too.”

  Anthea arrived ten minutes later, wearing trainers, jeans and her school hoody.

  “What’s up?”

  Jen bit her lip before responding. The priest had said the vault was for plague victims; Lovell some kind of medieval monster.

  At least one of them was lying.

  She removed the camera from her pocket. “It belonged to Debra Harrison.”

  Anthea put her hands to her mouth. “You mean she’s…”

  “I don’t know,” Jen said. “But take a look at this.”

  She showed Anthea the photographs of the vault.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Debra Harrison disappeared after finding a way into the restricted vault.”

  Anthea was gobsmacked. “How?”

  “That’s the problem:

  “We have to enter it via the priory.”

  41

  The GPS led them to a large building in Greenwich, situated south of the water and within sight of the O2, the Royal Observatory, and the National Maritime Museum.

  Caroline stopped at a red light on a busy street that was rich in tower buildings and concrete, and a bitch on the parking. Scaffolding surrounded the building opposite, and traffic cones and iron railings blocked the only entrance to the multi-storey car park.

  Judging by the exterior, the inside was not inhabitable.

  “Tell you what,” Stephen said, “why don’t we get out here while you find somewhere to park?”

  Stephen and Thomas departed while the light was still red, leaving Caroline without opportunity to argue. They jaywalked across the street while the traffic was at a standstill, and continued toward large double doors leading to the foyer.

  It was just after 7pm, and they had made good time. The sun was setting to the west of the city. A blaze of red dominated the London skyline, shining in all directions and reflecting off the glass of the skyscrapers. Large shadows had formed from the Citigroup and HSBC buildings, crossing several houses and continuing all the way to the water. Despite the pleasant weather, the river was quiet, save for one lonely barge heading in the direction of where the Docklands Arena once stood.

  Stephen opened the door and took his first look at the interior. The décor was half completed – unless the designers were going for the bomb-damaged look. Several hardhat symbols were placed on the walls, accompanied by other health and safety notices.

  Thomas was confused. The other side of the foyer was slightly more impressive and offered the choice of either four lifts or a staircase to the floors above.

  Stephen entered the lift without consultation and scanned the buttons on the display.

  “What floor is it?”

  “Six.”

  Stephen pressed the button. “Penthouse. Well, I never.”

  The lift began its ascent.

  “At least it works,” Stephen said. He removed the Glock 17 Thomas had given him from the inside of his suit and checked it was loaded.

  “You best let m-me do the t-talking.”

  Stephen looked at his cousin. “I don’t think we’ve got time for that.”

  The doors opened, revealing an unlit corridor still to be furnished. The floor was a combination of wood and plastic covering. Countless workmen’s tools were scattered at random, ranging from hammers to tape measures. The upper part of the corridor had been freshly painted, the aroma evident in their nostrils. All of the doors were white and evidently double-glazed.

  It was less obvious whether anyone was at home.

  They tiptoed through the plastic, taking great care over their footing. Thomas removed his firearm from his jacket, holding it with the barrel facing upwards. Like the surgeon, he had gone through the same basic training that all the royals go through on reaching a certain age, but unlike Stephen, this was now his life. For some, a career in the forces began at Sandhurst and ended in a magnificent parade, the ribbons of war dangling from just above the heart – at least for the lucky ones. For Thomas, Sandhurst was barely even the apprenticeship; that stage of his life was still ongoing. Perhaps it would never end. That was both his choice and the choice that had already been made for him – perhaps even before he was born.

  The curse of the Invisible Royal.

  The address corresponded with the penultimate door on the left. On appearances alone, it was no different from the others. It was white, with a gold handle, and appeared to be deserted.

  They stopped before the door, listeni
ng carefully. The sound of background noise was louder here, most notably that of the gulls. If anything, that enhanced the feeling of loneliness.

  Thomas looked to his left, then to the right.

  Nothing.

  They were alone.

  Stephen pushed the doorbell, a high-pitched chiming sound that faded almost immediately.

  Ten seconds passed, no response.

  “You’re sure this is the place?” Stephen asked.

  Thomas didn’t reply. Silently, he shared his cousin’s concern.

  Stephen took a step back and looked around: the floor, the walls, the ceiling…

  “Well, if you ask me, we’ve been brought on a wild bloody goose chase.”

  Thomas took a deep breath, his eyes darting side to side.

  Something was troubling him.

  “Can you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Shhh!” He placed a finger to his lips. “Listen.”

  The noise was coming from nearby.

  It sounded like gas escaping from a balloon.

  No. It sounded like an egg frying in a pan.

  No. It was acid dissolving something metallic.

  Or perhaps the sound of something fizzier.

  Thomas placed his ear to the door. Whatever it was, it was coming from inside the apartment.

  The realisation hit Thomas immediately.

  “B-b-bomb!”

  Two streets away, Caroline finally found a parking space along a busy street lined with houses and shops. It said on the sign that payment must be made by phone, and required both car registration and a credit card number.

  The plague of living in London.

  She inserted the last three digits of the registration and huffed on realising she’d made a mistake. She listened to the options on the phone and attempted to rectify the situation.

  The explosion occurred about two streets away, probably less than a quarter of a mile from where she was standing. The noise was startling, causing her to drop the phone.

  A trail of dust was rising into the evening sky, the full effects partially obscured by nearby buildings. There might have been smoke as well, but she couldn’t be certain.