The Plantagenet Vendetta

by John Paul Davis

  “I’m afraid I don’t have all of the details; it all seemed rather hurried.”

  “Where is Thomas now?” asked the King.

  “Paying them a visit,” Clarence answered.

  “Let’s hope they don’t cause a scene. What of the man at the apartment, by the way?”

  “Nothing since his arrival at Wootton-on-the-Moor,” Clarence replied.

  “And the other man?” York asked.

  “Other man?”

  “The man from Greenwich?”

  “Well, he was dead to begin with.”

  The King remembered. “What of that gruesome scar?”

  “Yes, I’ve asked Dr Grant to take a look at it,” Clarence said. “This might take a bit longer.”

  The King accepted the answer. “What of the man who Stephen treated the day before?”

  “Also dead.”

  “Any identity?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes, Corporal Mark Percy: twenty-eight, white Caucasian, blond hair, single…his father owns a house on the same street as Jeffries.”

  The King gave him a piercing look. “Another boy of recorded ancestry.”

  “I know what you’re thinking, Stephen…”

  “What of the firearms?”

  “According to Bridges, the model was not on record. Inquiries remain ongoing. However, most interestingly, a search has already taken place at the home of Jack Talbot. They found over a hundred more concealed behind a wall.”

  “What of the meat found in the man’s pocket?”

  “Also new,” Clarence admitted. “And almost certainly the source of the poison. Tests are being carried out.”

  “What do they know?”

  “Nothing – at least nothing definitive. Though MI5 have speculated the bird might have been genetically modified.”

  “Genetic…meaning what exactly?”

  Clarence’s response was interrupted by a buzzing sound on the intercom.

  The King answered. “Yes?”

  “The Duke of Cornwall is about to land, Majesty.”

  The helicopter came down in the grounds of Buckingham Palace.

  Stephen left his seat immediately and sprinted toward the nearest entrance. He carried a small box, worthless in monetary value.

  Priceless in everything else.

  77

  This time Jen really couldn’t move. So many sensations had hit her at once…

  It was like being choked all over.

  Her pulse was beating so fast she thought it was going to explode. She felt it in her ears, her wrists…even her temples. Worse still was her breathing. Her chest felt so tight it seemed to physically close her throat.

  The old man was sitting in an armchair by one of eight circular columns, each a support to the vaulted ceiling. Jen had already formed a perception of him from seeing him that day in the upstairs window, but she was actually quite surprised how small he was. His frame was hunched, and his hands prone to bouts of shaking. He obviously suffered from Parkinson’s, but she assumed there was some arthritis thrown in there as well.

  But what struck her most was his breathing. Inhaling was particularly lengthy and plagued, even compared to the sound as he breathed out that reminded her of a passing train. Signs of illness were unmistakeable, be it cancer, bronchitis, an underperforming alveolus…

  For all she knew, it was all three if not more.

  Nevertheless, his eyes were alert, suggesting his mind was active.

  “You were admiring the architecture of the late Reverend Malcolm Pritchard. He was a local man, a good friend of my grandfather. He was responsible for many similar buildings in the Riding but never really received the acclaim he deserved. I don’t expect you to be familiar with the name.”

  Jen looked back, mesmerised.

  “Do you like my little chapel?”

  Jen attempted to respond. “Yes,” she managed timidly. “It’s magnificent.”

  The man showed no emotion. “I’m most sorry I have been unable to meet you until now; in my condition it’s rather difficult. Fortunately these days I’m not completely isolated. There are other ways to receive news.”

  She swallowed, saliva nearly going down the wrong way. She cleared her throat but avoided a complete cough.

  “I understand you’re a TV producer?”

  She wasn’t, but she decided it was close enough. “Yes.”

  “Here to film a documentary on a missing teenager.”

  The way he said the words ‘missing teenager’ troubled her. They were slow and cold, a little too precise for her liking.

  “Yes.”

  “The family have a long history in these parts – particularly on the mother’s side. The girl’s great-grandfather went on to be rather a skilled tactician in the British Army – rising to colonel, or thereabouts. You know I went to school with him.”

  She couldn’t tell whether that was a question or a statement of fact.

  “Really?” She felt incapable of saying anything more.

  “They were a much different family back then.”

  Jen had no idea what he meant by that remark. She had no intention of pursuing the matter.

  An awkward silence descended on the room, if anything even worse than talking to him. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end, as were the ones on her legs and arms. It was cold, despite the warmth of the day. She desperately wanted to leave, but she realised that was impossible.

  She sought to speak, but had nothing to say.

  All she managed was an awkward clearing of the throat.

  “I hope that Dr Lovell has not been neglecting you as a guide,” he asked, another rhetorical question.

  In a way, Jen was relieved. Even if she was being lured into a trap, at least the old man knew why she was there.

  “No…actually he’s just gone to the loo,” she lied. “He left me to visit the chapel.”

  She watched for a response, again not forthcoming. The man had a tendency to tilt his head forward, his eyes looking permanently upwards through his bifocals. She sensed great melancholy about his character. There was sorrow in his eyes, the feeling emphasised by the sagging of the skin around his lips. To Jen, it appeared like a permanent frown that she silently believed to be genuine.

  Was his physical condition to blame? No.

  She sensed it was something more personal.

  She moved her legs, firstly in no one direction before finding herself examining the tombs.

  “Are these your ancestors?” she asked, already knowing the answer. There were twelve tombs in total: nine joint graves containing married couples, three with just a single name. Again she felt herself drawn to the one of his son.

  The oldest dated back to the 1700s.

  “I never realised chapels like this were legal in the 1700s.”

  His answer seemed to take an age. “That’s quite correct. The chapel to your left was only commissioned in 1872. It was completed in 1877, and the room where we are now added later.”

  The answer seemed plausible. “What about these?” she asked about the graves.

  “Everything dated before 1895 was reinterred at the turn of the last century.”

  “Why wasn’t it used right away?”

  “At the time, my ancestors preferred the thought of being buried in consecrated ground.”

  “Is this not consecrated?”

  “Only since 1895.”

  “Is that usual?”

  “Is it usual to have a monastery or a chapel within one’s own house?”

  She let the subject pass and continued to inspect the writing on the tombs, her focus on the names. As before, most of the men were named Edward or Richard, and many of the women Elizabeth.

  She avoided the temptation to ask why.

  Suddenly she remembered she was wearing a wire.

  “So how come these are not buried in the hidden vault?” she asked, making firm eye contact for the first time. “And how come they don’t have king before their na
me?”

  The man remained speechless, but on this occasion Jen detected venom in his eyes. She knew the question was unexpected, but more importantly she knew the old man must have known about her intrusion into the vaults.

  Why else lure her here?

  Why else try to kill her in broad daylight?

  She asked the same question again, doing her best to make sure her speech was perfect.

  She prayed Thomas was listening.

  78

  Thomas didn’t feel how he expected to feel. Yet how, exactly, he expected to feel, he was still unsure. The information he had received from Caroline, though he was sure he heard correctly, was difficult to digest.

  He looked intently at the face in front of him.

  The face of a murderer.

  Edward was standing about ten metres away, his frame leaning against one of the walls. He stood with his arms folded, as he always seemed to do. To Thomas, he was like the stereotypical student.

  It was like looking at a man who had just got out of bed.

  Thomas walked slowly toward him, doing his best to listen to what was around him while still trying to concentrate on his earpiece. Jen was no longer talking, but her breathing was loud.

  His primary concern was locating the missing gunman.

  He turned in the opposite direction.

  “Aren’t you even going to say hello?” Edward asked in his soft Yorkshire tone.

  Thomas stopped, returning his attention to Edward. Again he looked, but said nothing.

  “Didn’t your father ever tell you that it’s rude not to show honour to your host? Dear me, our standards must be slipping. Must be all that common blood you’ve let into your family.”

  Thomas heard him speak without really listening, choosing to concentrate instead on his earpiece. Nevertheless, the feeling was strange. Technically, the man was his flesh and blood: third cousin once removed, or something of the sort. In truth, he was unaware of even half of the branches that made up his unique family tree.

  Edward moved closer, his gait not quite a swagger, but not far from it. It was like the walk of a teenager who had just punched far above his weight.

  “Can I offer you a drink? Something to eat? Smoke?”

  Again the prince said nothing.

  “Don’t you remember our old school motto, Tom? Manners makyth man?” Edward smiled. “Cat got your tongue?”

  Thomas wetted his lips. “Where is she?” He managed to avoid a stutter.

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think?”

  Edward pretended to ponder the question. “What? Jen?” He laughed aloud. “Blimey, I knew some of you royals liked it rough, but I never realised she were your type. How long have you even known her?”

  “Where is she?” he asked again. The lack of talking in his earpiece was causing him concern.

  Edward shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you – she keeps running away from me.”

  The smile had returned, only this time Thomas found it even worse to deal with. His recent conversation with Caroline still dominated his thoughts.

  The idea seemed impossible.

  “What brings you here, anyway? I never realised you were capable of making it this far north,” Edward said, laughing at his own joke. “I hear you had rather a narrow escape yesterday? Down in Greenwich – I’m guessing that was you?”

  Thomas was surprised by the accuracy.

  “Any idea who they were?”

  “Cut the crap!” His voice echoed.

  Edward looked at the prince, dumbstruck. “Wow. Okay. Did you say you would like a drink, by the way?”

  “Just stop,” Thomas shouted. “Just s-stop.”

  Thomas took a deep breath, in and then out. He knew he needed to calm himself, but doing so wasn’t easy.

  Thomas looked him in the eye. “Which one of you is responsible?” he asked, this time more quietly. “You or your g-grandfather?”

  “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” Thomas shouted, with intense anger in his eyes. “I’ve seen the photos, Edward. I-I’ve seen them.”

  Edward shrugged. “I have seriously no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “She showed me everything. I know about the girl that disappeared. I know about the Sons of York. I know about your c-coronation.”

  Thomas looked at him with a resigned expression.

  “And I know that it was you who murdered my grandfather.”

  For what seemed like several seconds, Edward didn’t flinch.

  “Are you feeling all right? Did that explosion give you brain damage or something?”

  “Stephen told me everything,” Thomas replied, a partial truth. “He’s s-seen the footage from Balmoral. The King knows.”

  “Stephen’s s-s-s-s-s-seen the f-f-f-f-footage?” Edward mimicked. “Are you out of your mind? Can you even hear yourself? What footage, Tom? What footage?”

  Thomas squared up to him, their faces almost touching. “How dare you,” he said, a look of staunch determination present in his eyes. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  Though Thomas centred his attention on Edward, he heard something in his earpiece. Jen was speaking to someone, he didn’t know who.

  Nor could he hear the other person.

  At least the gunshots had ceased.

  “Now wh-where is she?”

  Edward’s expression had hardened slightly, as if he was finally taking things seriously.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Tom. Honest to God, I do. But you still don’t understand, not really. You might say you do, but you really, really don’t,” he said, moving away. “It’s not your fault, Tom, you can’t possibly understand – no one can.”

  Thomas watched him as he began to pace from side to side. He knew it was impossible to predict his next move.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Edward laughed. “Oh, Tom, I only wish I could explain – I know what you must think of me, but even I wasn’t brought up with this.

  “You remember when we were at school and our history tutor would tell us things: when was the Battle of Hastings, when was the Great Fire of London, when was the Battle of Trafalgar, you know, all that kind of stuff…imagine learning all that, only to find that there’s this other side, a side practically no one knows existed. And then, imagine finding out not only that it exists, but that you’re part of it.”

  Thomas stood with his arms folded. Unbeknown to Edward, he was also listening to Jen’s voice.

  “It was never my intention to hurt anyone, believe me. I’m not like that; you know that,” Edward said, making passing eye contact. “If I wanted you dead, I could have shot you just now in the corridor – you would never even have known it was me. For all I knew, you were never to be involved.”

  “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  “I know what you must think about the Sons of York; I expect you heard it all from that silly historian years ago. I saw the article in the Chronicle – I expect it was actually him. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  The prince said nothing.

  “In all fairness, Tom, it’s true: in the past, members of my family did try to usurp the throne – the same throne, had it not been for some guy named Tudor, would quite possibly be mine right now.”

  Though he heard correctly, what was said beggared belief.

  Edward Jeffries, King of England.

  Or Edward XIV, as he was known locally.

  At least according to Jen.

  “The original Sons of York actually expired in about 1688 – just after the Glorious Revolution. In a sense, that really was the end of the Plantagenets and the Woodvilles. The direct male line had died out. Ironic, as your blood now is mostly German.”

  Thomas bit his lip but again said nothing.

  “I was eighteen when I learned the terrible truth about the rift that has plagued our separate families. All through school I didn’t have the slight
est inkling. My initial thought was to dismiss it. I mean it sounds ludicrous, doesn’t it? The offspring of the Princes in the Tower, or the offspring of the son of Clarence and Elizabeth of York, still walking the earth, looking to wreak their vengeance on the ones who betrayed them…it’s oh so perfect…

  “But there’s something else, Tom; something that, in all fairness, you probably don’t even know.”

  He guessed Edward was talking about the projector in the hidden room. Based on the footage, it didn’t make for pleasant viewing.

  “So in return, you commit regicide?”

  “Call it by whatever name you wish, it’s all the same. A man’s life is a man’s life – king, lawyer, a worker in McDonald’s…the feudal system ended centuries ago, but in some ways not much has changed. The same things happen, things that could be avoided. Why should there be one rule for one and another for others.”

  “When you p-poison the K-King of England, the penalty is no different to any other: one or the other it’s life in prison, prince or p-peasant.”

  “Is that right? One or the other, the penalty is no different. No exception.”

  The pretender came slightly closer.

  “Then tell me why the former King of England never did jail time for the murder of my mother and father?”

  Three guards stood outside the office, their eyes focused on the corridor in front of them. The orders were specific, as always.

  No one would be allowed to enter under any circumstances.

  Inside the room, York, Clarence and Stephen all stood hunched around the desk, their eyes on the TV screen. The King was sitting. Despite the gravity of what he was seeing, his façade was calm, his hands clasped loosely together as though in deep contemplation.

  “Switch it off.”

  Stephen did so, and the screen went blank. He had seen it many times already, but it still made for unpleasant viewing.

  “Who knows about this?” York asked.

  “Possibly only us – and Caroline,” Stephen replied. “I assume the guards at Balmoral may have seen it without understanding its importance.”

  Clarence agreed. “How often the subject of enquiry appears much clearer to the person who knows what it is they are looking for.”