“If the rule of the Plantagenets taught us one thing, it was the importance of the assistance of the Pope. When Henry VIII burned that bridge, those who were once our allies became our enemies. And the ruler of England forever susceptible.”
Thomas shook his head. “You have a C-Catholic sympathy now?”
Gardiner looked back coldly. “It is not I who does anything, I am only telling you what happened. When Edward VI came to the throne, it was known that the best way forward for the government of England was a monarch who could unite. The boy king, sickly though he was, would have survived a lot longer had it not been for the circumstances that put him there. The web of the papacy was far reaching; that of the House of York, cunning.”
That got his attention. “He was murdered?”
“Killed by the very people he thought were his friends.”
“His wife?”
“His physician.”
Thomas placed his hands to his head. “Death by poison.”
The historian nodded. “Perhaps manipulation would be the correct word in this instance. Baked in a pie.”
Thomas shook his head, the irony painful. He looked to his left and picked up a goblet of wine from the nearby table.
Then he went off the idea.
“The young king knew that successful continuation of the Reformation in England required the right successor. Naïvely, he chose Lady Jane Grey, the poor girl who did not stand a chance. For the Sons of York, Edward’s succession by a Catholic queen was at least a lesser of two evils. When Mary failed to conceive, in theory all that was needed then was a York marriage to Philip II’s daughter and a York would return to the throne.”
“But who? You d-don’t even know if the next child would be a b-boy or girl.”
“Behind the walls of the Vatican, I have no doubt that the Pope and his ally from York had that anxious wait many a time over. Fortunately for John Clement, he was blessed with both sons and daughters. The eldest was Edward, named after his great-grandfather. He’s the boy in the painting.”
Thomas turned to see the painting attributed to Holbein. All he could see was a person reading.
“The papacy knew?”
“Of course they knew; not only that, but they approved. Should the Tudor kings have behaved like good little boys and continued to pay homage to the Bishop of Rome, then there was no reason to believe that the eventual outcome of the Wars of the Roses would have been anything more than a footnote in the context of the Vatican’s history. As soon as it became clear that Elizabeth was going to be heading the same way as her brother and father – hardly surprising given she was the daughter of Anne Boleyn – the papacy once again had a problem. The Act of Uniformity of 1559 made the position of the Roman Church untenable. In 1570 she was excommunicated.”
Gardiner laughed loudly.
“Does it not strike one as strange that within a year of the queen’s excommunication she was the victim of a plot, by an Italian?”
“Ridolfi.”
Gardiner nodded. “During her long reign, the queen was the victim of no less than sixteen plots, perhaps more – who knows how many were swept under the carpet or failed to come to fruition. After the failure of the Somerville and Parry plots, many believed the opportunity for Yorkist revival had passed. Had the Somerville Plot been successful, carried out by the descendents of the cousins of the Princes in the Tower, the return of the Sons of York would have been set almost totally in stone. When the failure of Anthony Babington and his attempts to secure the throne for Mary Queen of Scots led to the pretender’s death, there was little anyone could do but wait for a Spanish triumph or for the old girl to die.”
“But Elizabeth was s-succeeded by James.”
“The coming of the man from Scotland could have been exactly what all sides needed – a compromise. When that failed, it took only one hungry young wannabe tyrant to attempt to rewrite history. It signalled a dangerous new era for the Sons of York. The man’s name, Robert Catesby.”
“The Gunpowder Plot.”
“A sixth generation descendent of the Chancellor of Richard III, known also to his contemporaries as the Cat.”
The words were spoken by Gardiner in the manner of a teacher addressing a primary school student, the older man clearly amused by the prince’s ignorance.
“Had it have been successful, of course, the almighty blow would have seen the end of the entire constitution. It was not only a building and a monarch that would have needed replacing, but the government.”
“Swept away like the waters of the Red Sea.”
“Interesting analogy – not incorrect. Even the Puritans were not averse to suggestion it was something of a judgement.”
Thomas was beginning to see the big picture. “What happened next? And this time don’t beat about the bush.”
On this occasion Gardiner didn’t dally. “Evidence suggests that the plots continued, although if they did, they met little in the way of success. During the reign of Charles I, the two actually joined forces against a much greater foe. It was Cromwell, not the Lancastrian kings of old, who oversaw the ruin of the Jeffries’ estates.”
“Then what?”
“The next descendent emerged, this time as part of the Monmouth Rebellion, yet he, too, met his maker following the fall of James II.”
“I’ve heard this bit before.”
“Have you indeed?” Gardiner cleared his throat. “Following that time, it is my honest opinion that the direct line came to an end. As a result, attempts against the Royal Family itself have, at least up to now, been largely non-existent. It could even be argued that in the 18th and 19th centuries the history of the Sons of York can be more easily explained by the development of the Whig movement. Even now, their influence in politics is greater than you can possibly know.”
He’d heard this before as well. “You mean they’re republicans?”
“Actually, no; the importance that the Sons place on their Norman ancestry is really rather admirable in many ways. They are quintessential English – that’s a fact – but you are more likely to find a trade unionist in their midst than a Blackshirt. Nevertheless, word of caution.”
Thomas left his seat and examined the paintings for a second time. He shook his head.
“How? How do you know this?”
“Over the years, the curiosity of the curious has led to many a fine discovery.”
He showed Thomas the Ravensfield Chronicle again.
“Even to this day it is in their home county where their influence runs deepest.”
Thomas breathed furiously. “How did you find this?”
“I pilfered it from the Bodleian.”
He looked at it. “The Ravensfield Chronicle,” he said. The handwriting was dark and murky. “Where?”
“The original Ravensfield Blackfriars Priory was located somewhere in the North York Moors. According to the end of this, something the author called the second continuation, Henry Tudor ruined the priory in 1490 due to its importance to the House of York. After that, it goes into less detail.”
“Where was it?”
“In my opinion, the place referred to as Ravensfield is now a village called Wootton-on-the-Moor. According to this, the entire village was ransacked and lost.”
He looked at Gardiner. Suddenly things were making sense.
“One thing still p-puzzles me. If all this is correct, why did Elizabeth of York marry Henry Tudor?”
The historian laughed. “A most excellent point.”
He showed him another oil painting, this time on the far left wall.
It was a copy of a very famous painting. The subject: Elizabeth of York, artist unknown.
There was a second painting alongside it, another woman, blonde hair, elegant and beautiful, perhaps late teens.
“Notice anything strange?”
Thomas shrugged. “Who are they?”
“Elizabeth of York.”
“It’s the same woman?”
“
Yes and no.”
“Let me guess. Tudor married an imposter.”
Gardiner clapped his hands together and smiled. “Another fine work credited to the great Hans Holbein.”
He turned to face the prince.
“Elizabeth Woodville was cunning. And as you say, why enter an alliance with the Tudors if the princes, or at least one, were still alive?
“Thus we come to the final element of the puzzle. The deceit of the Woodvilles into making Margaret Beaufort think her son, Henry Tudor, had married a Plantagenet. In fact, he had married a lesser Woodville.”
“He didn’t know?”
“I believe he probably did. That is why Henry Tudor’s wish to destroy every copy of Titulus Regius was so pivotal. Being barred by Attainder, his only option was to marry the princess. Thus, the Tudor’s own deceit. Their claim to the throne was void.”
Thomas exhaled deeply. “And Elizabeth?”
“According to the Ravensfield Chronicle, she disappeared when leaving sanctuary in 1483 on the advice of her uncle Richard. Two years later she was joined by her cousin and soon-to-be husband.”
“Who?”
“The third prince in the Tower. The boy history always forgets.”
Thomas bit his lip. “Clarence’s son.”
The earl nodded. “It is through him and Elizabeth that your noble cousins, Jeffries, claim their descent.”
Thomas returned his attention to the chronicle. “Can we really v-vouch for its accuracy?”
“There is only one way.”
“Go on.”
“Exhume the skeletons at Westminster Abbey and carry out the tests that your grandfather was too afraid to order himself. If you’re smart, you will also find a way of excavating the tomb of John Clement, who is buried in the Cathedral of St Rumbold’s in Belgium. Only then will you know the truth.”
For several seconds Thomas failed to reply. “And of the present?”
“By now I’d have thought that must be obvious.”
“Jeffries.”
“Noble cousins.”
Thomas’s anger was finally beginning to boil over. “You bastard. You b-bastard. All this time, you–”
The old man remained resolute. “It does not do to dwell too much on the past, Tom.”
“Strange words f-for a historian.”
“Who better qualified to say them?”
Thomas bit his lip and pointed. “Treason lives. As do traitors.”
He left the room, heading in the direction of the hallway.
From the room he had left, he heard the sound of a lone gunshot.
He stopped in his tracks. He was suddenly numb, his body static. As he began to breathe, a cold chill ran down his spine.
Slowly he returned to the room.
The earl was standing, carrying a revolver. “Be careful what you wish for.”
The prince breathed deeply.
Suddenly he started laughing.
“Enjoy your retirement, old man.”
Outside the house, Thomas got into the Bentley.
“Everything all right?” Stephen asked.
Thomas turned slowly. “Peachy.”
“Caroline called. She tracked the car to the village of Wootton-on-the-Moor. I was right, by the way. That is where the girl disappeared last year.”
“Also the home of some distant cousins.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
Thomas bit his lip so hard it nearly started to bleed.
“Everything all right?”
“It’s a long story.”
Thomas dropped Stephen off at the rear of the palace.
“Remember what I said.”
“Tom, I still don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to. Jim said the tombs will prove it. The Princes in the Tower are b-buried at Westminster Abbey; Elizabeth of York is in the Lady chapel. Also, use any influence you have to s-see that a s-similar excavation is carried out on the tomb of John Clement in St Rumbold’s Cathedral in Belgium.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going north to find Caroline.”
The King was still awake at 1am. He was reading in his study when he received his unexpected visitor.
Stephen entered without waiting for an invite. “Father, I need a favour.”
The King didn’t bat an eyelid. “Very well.”
“I need your permission to exhume two royal tombs.”
“Whose?”
“The urn containing the Princes in the Tower and Elizabeth of York.”
“The Princes…”
“There’s very little time to explain.
“And I need it before dawn.”
54
Wootton-on-the-Moor, 5am
As always it began with the dawn. The first hint of orange had emerged in the sky behind the castle hill, its bright light distorted by distant clouds. Soon the sun would rise above the hill, illuminating firstly the ancient woodland and then the house, through the large Gothic windows that lined the side of the building. In the past the light had been necessary; without it, the telling of time was impossible.
These days it served only as a reminder.
The cellar was the oldest part of the estate. In its heyday it had belonged to the castle itself. Back then it was known as the court or the meeting room. It was the heart of the feudal system – the place where justice would be meted out or new laws passed. Wooden furniture was arranged along the walls, its appearance in keeping with the room’s former purpose. There was a statue at the head of the room of an elegant king adorned with regal sword and crown.
Henry II. The first Plantagenet king.
The floor was also wooden, its boards prone to prolonged creaking. The main feature was an elaborate table decorated with the Plantagenet crest: three gold lions on a maroon background. The symbol represented England at a different time, back when the empire extended far beyond the channel.
How things had changed.
The table itself was worthy of mention. Instead of the usual circle or rectangle, it was designed in the shape of a shield. Thirty chairs surrounded it, all of which were taken.
Twelve sat along either side. While every man present was dressed in robes, a fitting and ancient regalia, for those on the left side the black cloaks and white habits were also their usual dress. It had been that way since the 1200s, back when the priory was in its heyday.
All sat quietly.
At the bottom of the table, three men sat spaced apart. Lovell and Ratcliffe sat either side of Sir William Catesby, who sat at the point where the tip was at its most outstretched.
Opposite him, Lord Jeffries occupied the most elaborate seat. To his left sat his namesake and grandson. On the other side, the seat was empty – a reminder of the loss of his son. To the wider world, the man was an enigma. To the people of Wootton, his reputation was less esteemed. Most of them viewed him as a crank, if not simply:
A bastard.
In this room, however, his importance rose to unrivalled heights. Within the assembled group, he was addressed only as ‘Your Highness’ or ‘Your Grace’. It was the term used before Majesty, back in the old days. To his followers his official title was:
Edward XIII, King of England, Duke of York, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Aquitaine, Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou, Count of Poitou.
Despite his appearance, regal but without the highly crafted trimmings of the monarchs of old, he was now little more than a figurehead. The true authority belonged to the three sitting opposite. Like their predecessors, they not only ran this show, but every show. Their ancestors had achieved immortality as the governors of England:
The Cat, the Rat, and Lovell our Dog.
Who ruled all England under a Hog.
“Martin Tolson, Democrat candidate for the constituency of Keighley, was yesterday successful in the bi-election. May we offer our congratulations to both he and his party leader.”
There was no applause, but Catesby’
s words were taken seriously. The leader of the Democrat Party, Rowland Stanley, the gopher-faced man with smart silver hair, nodded but remained silent.
“Next week we have another bi-election, this time in East Sussex. I understand the candidate to be put forward is Mr Thompson.”
“I thought he was dead,” Ratcliffe said.
“This is Thompson junior,” Stanley replied. “Gareth is his son.”
“Is he able?” the Rat asked.
“I respect him.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
The Dog sat forward. “I think what my colleague is trying to say, dear Rowland, is that the constituency in question has always been one loyal to the Tories. Is the son of a former Blackshirt really a man who will endear himself to the voters?”
Stanley took his time. “He is the best we have at the present time.”
“I see.”
“What are his chances?” the Cat asked.
“He is unlikely to beat the Tory candidate, but the late Mr Bates was rather popular – a former Cabinet minister, we mustn’t forget,” Lovell replied.
“There is no doubt that he has big shoes to fill,” Stanley agreed. “But these days, who doesn’t?”
The Cat stroked his beard. “Personal congratulations, I believe, are also in order for Mr Dawson. For those of you who do not know, Mr Dawson’s construction company has recently won the contract for development of the South Bank. I’m sure, gentlemen, you will join me in wishing him well in his bid to add his vision to the great city.”
Several people nodded, including Dawson, who sat quietly along the side. He had dark hair and wore a smart suit beneath his robes.
As did the others on that side.
“But now, gentlemen, to more pressing issues. As many of you may now be aware, a situation in London is brewing, and a minor crisis must be averted. I assume we need not waste time on the details.”
Prolonged silence descended on the room. Those sitting along the sides in particular became deathly still, either unwilling to put themselves on the spot or risk appearing stupid.
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 32
