“Can you imagine?” he asked. “Imagine what it was like living in such uncertainty. The battles were among the bloodiest ever witnessed. Reputable men were put to death at the drop of a hat. And for what? The fortunes and grievances of unprincipled men whose own tenuous claims to the throne were tainted by the actions not only of their forebears but also their own kin.”
“May I remind you that you are speaking of my ancestors.”
The old man laughed. “You sound so sure.”
“Am I wrong?”
Gardiner’s expression was stern. “Do you have any idea what it meant to be a King of England at such a time? The Lancastrian dominance was finally cut short in 1461 when the king was usurped by Edward, Earl of March, henceforth Edward IV. This charismatic young man was on a road to prominence, until he decided his penis was more important than his realm. His marriage to the young commoner, Elizabeth Woodville, infuriated the nobles, including most importantly, the man history would remember as Warwick the Kingmaker – the most powerful and treacherous man of his day. No sooner had Warwick defected to the Lancastrians than was Henry VI back on the throne.”
“But only for one year,” Thomas said.
“The Battle of Tewkesbury in 1471 shall forever be remembered as one of the bloodiest to besmirch our green and pleasant land. But it is what came afterwards that would always be of greater importance.
“The Lancastrian line may have ended, but when Edward died suddenly in 1483, probably from a STD, the can of worms that had been sealed shut for so many years finally exploded. Edward V became king, then he simply disappeared…
“Or so the history books tend to claim.”
Thomas remembered what Wilson had told him. He watched the historian rise to his feet.
“Follow me, if you feel it’s worthy of your time.”
Beneath the Tower, Edmondes heard cries of consternation coming from the main corridor. It was after midnight, and such things were unheard of.
He left his office and headed rapidly in the direction of the sound. As he did so, he heard gunfire. He went for his Glock, only to realise it was too late.
Four men dressed in black and white robes were standing in the middle of the main corridor, each armed with automatic weapons.
“Good evening, Constable,” one of the four said in a voice that was both deep and hard. “Take us to the prisoner.”
Choiceless, the four hooded men frogmarched Edmondes through the maximum security doors, heading toward the most exclusive area of the prison. Seconds later they were outside Morris’s cell.
“Open it,” the leader demanded of Edmondes.
“Are you mad?”
The leader of the four raised his gun. “You’re no use to any of us dead, Constable.”
Out of options, Edmondes placed his palm to the scanner, and the electronic cell opened.
“Get in.”
Edmondes obeyed.
Morris bowed before his brothers.
The leader of the four threw him a weapon. “We’re needed back north by sunrise.”
Outside the Tower, the new Justice Secretary was sitting in the backseat of the car when the door opened. Barely able to hide his disgust, he watched as Morris quickly got in.
Seconds later, they were away.
50
They entered a room on the first floor, not quite a living room but not far off. Like most in the house, it was painted white, ornately furnished with antiques and well lit by Georgian-style chandeliers.
One feature took the breath away.
The walls were covered in masterpieces.
“Christ, Jimmy – there’s more here than the Tate.”
“Either a poor attempt at humour or a complete lack of scale,” the man retorted. “However, they do give me great pleasure.”
He walked in front of three in particular, all renaissance artworks.
“I don’t expect you to comprehend their true significance. To expect that would be unfair; it takes years to grasp that kind of knowledge.”
“Years well spent?”
“In my opinion, yes.”
Thomas detected the comment had upset him.
“Jimmy, it’s almost midnight. It’s been a long day, and I’m s-starting to get somewhat sleepy. Save the p-party tricks for the anniversary.”
He turned around, his eyes on the prince’s. “You never did take my advice, did you, Tom?”
“Wh-what advice exactly are we talking about now?”
“The same advice I’ve been giving you your entire life. Never take things at face value. The legacy of the Sons of York is all around us – even in this very room.”
He pointed at one of the paintings, a large original oil-based picture depicting a family scene.
“This rather nice painting is a copy of an original by the younger Hans Holbein, completed around 1527. The version here is from 1593. Notice the scene.”
The prince took in the detail. “Thomas More.”
“Sir Thomas More, later saint, a model of Tudor humility and excellence. Quite right,” the historian continued. “Surrounding him, his lovely family.”
Thomas studied the painting. The artist’s name was Rowland Lockey.
“What happened to the original?”
The historian shrugged. “Lost. Though if you want my best guess, the original is probably still in the possession of the man’s family.”
Thomas accepted the answer, his concentration on the painting. There were twelve people in total: six men and six women. Slightly left of centre, Thomas More stood in a position of prominence, dressed in his usual attire of a black beret and an identically coloured cloak atop a red overcoat. A large gold medallion hung around his neck, denoting his position as chancellor.
Thomas looked at the historian. “What’s so significant?”
“There are twelve people, Tom, in the painting: two of whom we cannot verify. See if you can guess who.”
The suggestion made Thomas feel suddenly uneasy. He looked at the painting in more detail, studying individual faces. There was writing above the heads – always in Latin.
There was a young man standing toward the back, reading something. There was no writing above his head.
“Him.”
Gardiner nodded. “Quite right.”
Thomas tried to find the other elusive subject. The others all had writing either above or below.
“I’m afraid you’re going to just have to t-tell me.”
“All right. May I draw your attention to the gentleman standing to the uppermost right?”
Thomas followed his direction. There were three women sitting at the front of the painting, and three men standing behind them. The man standing furthest to the right was dressed in opulent garments, mostly dark red, and a black beret partially covered a fine head of dark hair.
He was clearly not part of the main setting.
“Notice anything strange about the man?”
The test had started; knowing Gardiner, it was possibly a trick. Thomas saw nothing unusual.
“Tell me, what is he holding?”
Thomas looked. “A scroll, s-something similar.”
“Correct. What is he standing against?”
Again Thomas examined the painting in detail. “It’s some kind of, I-I don’t know, some kind of doorway or partition.”
“A sensible answer, but quite incorrect,” the historian said, walking ever closer. “Tell me what’s different about the top of the structure?”
“Why, there’s a small statue at every c-corner and several fleur-de-lis.”
“Exactly.”
Gardiner walked to the other side of the painting, his breath evident on Thomas’s neck. This was the closest he had been so far.
“May I draw your attention to the second painting,” Gardiner said, gesturing to the next painting on, also of the More family. “There are four key differences in this painting. Firstly, please find for me the mystery man.”
Thomas looked in detail
. “I can’t.”
“Hmm.”
Thomas was now getting worked up. “Really, Jim…”
“Perhaps I may also divert you to this.” Next on from that painting was a sketch, clearly much older and depicting the same scene.
“The original?”
“Let’s call it the brainstorm. Notice anything different?”
“Well, there’s no colour.”
“Besides that.”
Thomas had no idea.
“Give up?”
“Wait…he’s not there.”
“Nor is the lad reading in the background, often assumed to be the servant.”
“Isn’t he?”
“A servant reading?”
“Why not?”
“Why is surely the more important question.”
“Perhaps it was a sign of M-More’s personality.”
“An interesting idea, but quite wrong.” Gardiner took a dramatic pause. “May I ask you to return your attention to the original painting?”
“I thought you said it was lost.”
“I meant this one. What is the mystery man’s name?”
Thomas looked. His name was written in Latin above his head. “John.”
“John what?”
He read the remainder. “It says, John the rightful heir.”
“Heir of what?”
Thomas shrugged. “How should I know?”
“Notice, Tom, how the lad stands and who he is looking at.”
The prince was now seriously confused. John the rightful heir was standing with his head slightly tilted and looking at a thickset man who, in turn, was looking directly at the artist.
“The man here,” Gardiner pointed to the thickset man, “was one Henry Patenson, More’s fool. Who does he remind you of?”
Thomas grinned. “Henry VIII.”
“King of England at the time, whereas in this painting,” he pointed to the second painting, “Patenson’s appearance is far more low key.”
“Meaning?”
The historian smiled. “Let’s take another look at our friend John, shall we? The wooden structure you see behind him is not so much a doorway but a throne. The thickset fool, reminiscent in appearance of Henry VIII, is sadly covering the chair itself. Notice how Henry stands beneath the structure, but there is nothing above his head. As for John, he is standing beneath the fleur-de-lis. Meaning…”
“Meaning he was king?”
The earl nodded.
“That’s preposterous.”
Thomas looked at the painting in detail. Indeed, the mystery man and the lad reading were the only two standing in that part of the painting.
“Notice, also, how the mystery man is raised above Henry and all others.”
“Really, Jim.”
“It might also interest you to know that three versions of this copy survive and eight of this.” He spoke of the second painting. “It cost me a pretty penny, I can assure you. This is the only one that includes the mystery man or the reader. The others appear exactly as they did on the sketch.”
Thomas was confused. “Then why is this different?”
“Because in every other copy the mystery man was deleted.”
“By who?”
“By Queen Elizabeth I.”
Thomas laughed. “What makes you so sure?”
“They have all been tested, Thomas. X-rays, marvellous things, confirm without any shadow of doubt that the man who was once included was later marked out.”
Thomas looked again, his focus on John the rightful heir.
“Who is he?”
“His name, at least to historians, was John Clement. Rose to prominence in the 1540s, becoming president of the Royal College of Physicians. I’m sure that you’ll be most amused when I tell you that no paintings or documents of the man survive – the only president to suffer such misfortune.”
“Means nothing.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
Thomas bit his lip. “Who was he?”
“Clement was the husband of this lady,” he pointed to the first lady on the left of the first painting, “Margaret Clement, nee Giggs, More’s foster daughter. Notice how she is also absent from the second painting.”
“But present in the original sketch.”
“Indeed she is. But look at how she appears in the first painting. Notice the expression on her face, and that of her husband.”
The woman was clearly unimpressed. “She’s looking at the fool.”
The historian nodded. “Between them, husband and wife are giving Henry the evil eyes.”
Thomas said nothing.
“John Clement was born in 1500 and was at the time of the painting about twenty-seven. Check the records.”
Thomas didn’t doubt him. “What’s so important?”
“The matter of importance was John’s father, the identity of whom is mentioned only in one document: the same one you have been looking for all along.”
Gardiner left the room and returned with a medieval chronicle, quite obviously an original. The composition was vellum, the writing clearly Latin.
Thomas didn’t need any instruction it was the Ravensfield Chronicle.
“You?”
“Try reading it.”
Thomas did his best. The handwriting was old and elongated.
“Note the name of his father.”
He followed the earl’s finger. “Richard P-Plantagenet.”
51
Jen didn’t stop until reaching the far wall. The estate was large, comprising at least a hundred acres of fields and woodland, but also a number of manmade facilities and structures, including paddocks, barns and what looked to be the old village windmill beside the river. After taking a breather at the windmill, Jen and Anthea followed a line of trees and came to a pathway on the other side of a wall.
The end of the estate.
Jen used a tree stump to help herself onto the wall. She stopped halfway to help Anthea, who, not for the first time, was practically paralysed through fear. The pathway was gravel and led from the nearby woodlands back to the lane near the church.
The route came awkwardly near to the house.
They had made it back to where the path joined the lane when Anthea grabbed Jen’s hand. “Jen, stop.”
The girl was breathless.
Jen was also struggling. Sweat poured down the sides of her face while her T-shirt felt soaked beneath her jacket, itself now covered in dust.
“What the hell just happened?”
Jen’s mind was alive with images. What had she seen? She remembered the image on the camera. She removed the camera from her pocket and turned it on.
She looked at the latest picture for several seconds before showing it to Anthea.
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” Jen said. “Not exactly.”
Jen started pacing. She ran her hand through her hair, then dusted off her clothes. She looked over her shoulder. The house remained in sight, the lights on.
It was way too close for comfort.
“Come on.”
Anthea caught her up. “Jen, what’s it mean?”
Still she struggled to explain it – even to herself. The image on the wall had only shown up in the photograph after using the flash. It had been far too dark to see it at the time.
“There was a tapestry hanging from the wall – three lions on a maroon background. It was the symbol of the Plantagenets,” Jen said.
“I don’t understand.”
“The main tombs were of Edward V, Richard III, Princess Elizabeth and Richard IV. Edward V was never crowned; he disappeared in 1483 along with his brother.”
Anthea was confused. “How?”
“According to most people, murdered by their uncle.”
The penny dropped. “The Princes in the Tower?”
Jen passed through a kissing gate, now less than two hundred metres from the church.
“Edward V was allegedly killed, along w
ith his brother Richard, Duke of York. Before they disappeared, Richard III declared them illegitimate and took the throne. Richard III died at Bosworth two years later and was buried in a church in Leicester. After that, Henry Tudor took the throne.”
She looked at Anthea.
“There was no Richard IV.”
Anthea shook her head. “Whose grave was that?”
“Richard of Shrewsbury, the Duke of York – the second prince.”
“But…”
“Edward and Richard were never murdered. If what we saw is correct, Edward died of typhoid in November 1483. He was succeeded by Richard III, and he, in turn, was succeeded by his other nephew.”
“What about all the others: Henry VII, Elizabeth I, Charles I, Victoria…”
“That crypt contained the bodies of an alternative dynasty.” She looked at Anthea seriously. “If this is real, Richard of Shrewsbury lived on, married, had children; their children had children.”
She looked back at Wootton Court, slowly disappearing into the distance as they walked.
“The original emblem of the Plantagenets is a broom. The founder of the house was named Geoffrey. There was a Plantagenet monument in the graveyard.”
She looked again at Anthea.
“If this is correct, the Plantagenets didn’t die out. Their offspring continued in the line of the House of York. In their twisted minds, they still think they’re kings.”
Jen hurried through the gate at the end of the pathway and bumped into something moving.
“Ouch.”
Standing before her was Edward Jeffries. “Ey up, it’s Mrs Robin Hood.”
She nearly jumped out of her skin. It took her several seconds to get her bearings. She looked at him, initially nervous, then inwardly annoyed. She took a deep breath to compose herself.
She tried to remind herself, he didn’t know what they had discovered.
“Don’t they say hello in Nottingham?”
Jen smiled, noticeably forced. “Hey there.”
He smiled. “Hello, Anthea.”
Anthea grinned shyly.
He looked Jen up and down, amused by the dusty state of her clothes. “What have you two been rolling around in?”
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 30
