The Plantagenet Vendetta

by John Paul Davis

  “Is that what you think this is about? Sex?” He looked at Thomas. “Jen, his grandfather murdered my parents. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “That man murdered your king. My grandfather. You’re nothing but a common thug.”

  Edward aimed the gun at Thomas. “And how about him? Huh. How many more innocent lives would’ve had to be lost before you finally understood? How many more mistakes need be made? It wasn’t just them, Tom; my father had intelligence on hundreds, perhaps thousands, ranging from pig farmers to nuclear scientists. The monarchy is a leach on this country.”

  “They’re your relatives, too.”

  “Aye, you’re right; they are – and that’s what makes it so tough,” he turned and looked at his grandfather. “That’s the rightful king, right there. But no, fate changed because loyalty had forsaken us. That’s the real history of this country.

  “Do you know what they used to call the Wars of the Roses, Jen? They called it the Cousins’ War – see that’s effectively what it was. Did you ever hear what happened at Bosworth? The reason my ancestor lost? Because five of the families who said they would fight for him betrayed him. Worse, they watched on the sidelines until the battle was nearly over. Then they took the side of that Welsh prick Henry Tudor. It’s their descendents that govern this land. Their descendents who’ve ruined it.

  “History is full of people like them: liars, traitors.” He looked at Thomas. “Kings who command other people to do their dirty work.”

  He looked again at Jen.

  “It’s not too late, though. The future is still unwritten; it can be anything we make of it.”

  The photograph she had seen earlier that day continued to flash in her mind.

  Edward Jeffries,

  Edward XIV of England.

  “The choice should be with the people.”

  “You murdered the King of England,” Thomas repeated.

  “He killed far more than me.” He laughed again, always the same laugh. “Would you do the same?” he asked of Thomas. “The same as your grandfather?”

  Thomas bit his lip, trying his best to delay giving an answer. “You think it’s easy being king?”

  “Sitting on the fence.”

  “I am sorry about your parents. Whatever the circumstances.”

  There was sincerity in his voice, which Edward found distracting.

  “Why do you think you’re in the position you’re in: the invisible royal, the king’s loyal aid. In the past you’d have had another name: Henchman.”

  Thomas straightened his shoulders.

  “How many have you killed?” He looked at Jen. “Did he tell you what he did? On behalf of King and Country.”

  She stood quietly, still with the gun held out.

  “Your hand getting tired, Jen?”

  She rose her arm, the gun aimed at Edward’s eye line. She loosened her shoulder, trying as best she could to remain vigilant.

  Edward laughed, his eyes again on Thomas. His question of “how many have you killed?” remained unanswered.

  “Not got an answer, Tom?”

  “Being king is about priority. There are some th-things that can never be c-compromised.” He looked up at the raredos behind the altar. “Everyone makes sacrifices. Even he had his cross to bear.”

  The parallel went down badly. “I was that pissing sacrifice. He robbed me of everything. My mother…father…I could have had a brother or sister; there was still time, they were only thirty-seven.”

  Jen watched uncomfortably as tears began to fall from his eyes. She tightened her grip on the weapon.

  “I heard a rumour once, Tom, that MI5 has a process for people like you: kind of like the royals’ own version of training. Basically, once you’re through Sandhurst, they take you to this place in Scotland, one of the castles or palaces, and simulate that your entire family is being held hostage. You have to choose the best way forward. Did you ever take that test?”

  “It wouldn’t even be necessary. And besides, telling you would be a b-breach of official s-secrets.”

  “Official secrets.” He laughed. “Okay, you’re right; that was naughty of me. The funny thing is, either way you’re guaranteed an admiral’s uniform and a brass chest; me: even if I were a war hero, I’d be guaranteed nothing but a shit pension and shrapnel in the arse.”

  “Maybe you should try it first hand before making stupid insinuations.”

  Edward grinned. “Have you ever seen the film Bambi, Tom? My least favourite bit is the part where his mum died. Even though that one event began his development as a man, he was robbed of his security. Just like I was.”

  Thomas exhaled deeply. “I’ve never seen it.”

  Edward laughed again. “Why do people do it? Why all the hurt?”

  “A strange comment from a man who is aiming a gun at an unarmed man.”

  He pointed it at Jen. “Better?”

  “At least she’s armed.”

  Jen shot him a look of disbelief.

  “Can I offer you a seat, Jen?” Edward asked softly.

  Jen blew out forcibly. Nerves had now completely left her, but the uncertainty was greater than ever.

  “Who was responsible for killing the politicians?” Thomas asked. “You?”

  Edward shook his head. “Not me, Tom. I understand you’ve met Morris.”

  Thomas looked at the recently escaped prisoner still nursing a bullet to the thigh.

  “Why do it? I still don’t understand. I mean, it’s not as though you have any chance of actually claiming the throne.”

  “Well, you know what they say, Tom. If I tell you, I’ll have to…” He tapped twice against the side of the gun.

  “Are you sure? Okay. Well, you see, the thing is, Tom, it’s like you say, really. I have practically zero chance of becoming King of England. It’s not going to happen, even if I am the rightful heir. I’m what, eighteenth in line? Perhaps seventeenth.”

  “You’re twenty-second,” Thomas replied.

  Edward nodded. “Okay, so twenty-one graves stand in my way. Including yours…

  “But there is one thing the Sons of York can do. Stand for parliament.”

  Thomas laughed. “So that’s what this is all about. Your father, S-Stanley, Lord Ratcliffe–”

  “Historically, Tom, their families have always been involved. It goes back six centuries. But it’s not just about the Whigs, Democrats, or any other party. The goal is England.”

  Thomas lowered his eyebrows. “You want to conquer England?”

  “Not conquer, Tom. Reclaim. Ever since the Tudors, England has become contaminated. The Tudor rose was supposed to be a symbol of purity, but it was contaminated. The true heir still lived, and the marriage between Tudor and Elizabeth was a sham. But, worse still, less than fifty years later things were damaged beyond repair when one fat arrogant pig couldn’t have a son. Throughout Plantagenet England, we saw nothing but evolution. When Edward IV came to the throne, it developed even further. Had Richard and the princes ruled, the progress could’ve been out of this world. England could’ve had its own Renaissance: great commerce, a thriving art scene, geniuses like da Vinci and Michelangelo. The Tudors didn’t create; they destroyed. Then if that wasn’t enough, it was taken over by Scots. When Cromwell failed to take on the job, it was taken over by Germans.”

  He laughed.

  “The situation may change, but the scenario is always the same. Contamination. England was once the greatest country in the world. Look at what’s happened. Great Britain, I’ll give you that, but the EU, human rights, gay marriage, mass immigration…that isn’t the country my ancestors fought and died for. In the last twenty-five years, the EU has torn this country apart.”

  “What do you want? A referendum?”

  Another laugh. “When my ancestor Henry II sat on that throne, he ruled an empire that stretched from here to the Pyrenees. But do you know what the best part was? Come a century later, people finally knew what it meant to be English. Tha
t still exists; every time I go to Wembley, I feel nothing but pride. Then it goes, all gone in the drop of a hat.

  “The new world we were promised is disintegrating before our very eyes; to deny that is to look upon the truth and lie,” he said, conviction in the statement. “To be fair, fifteen years ago I even bought into it: a united Europe, single currency, the end of boom and bust…I mean, it’s brilliant, isn’t it when you hear it like that…but it’s not real, is it, Tom?”

  “And just what exactly do you propose to put in its place? A Fourth Reich? A police state? Fascist England? Surely you’re not planning ships to invade Normandy?”

  “Europe has the potential to be anything we want it to be. I bet you didn’t know that once upon a time even Tories like Bates and Trenton agreed with us. Hundreds do in the Commons. Only sadly those two decided they were unhappy with our plans; both knew far too much of our existence. But, since their deaths, the bi-elections have already gone to plan.”

  Thomas couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Who do you even support? The Democrats or the Tories?”

  Edward’s smile widened. “Perhaps I’m not the right person to answer that question.”

  Thomas turned to his left. Two newcomers had entered the chapel.

  West was waiting outside his new office in Westminster when the car arrived. It was a long, black limousine that he recognised immediately.

  He opened the door. “You?”

  “Get in,” Stephen replied from the back seat. “I hear you’ve done some sterling work.”

  The new Secretary of State for Justice got inside.

  “Tell me everything that’s happened since yesterday.”

  85

  Jen and Thomas looked to their left. Two men had entered the chapel. Jen had seen them both recently, whereas for Thomas several years had passed.

  “I’m sure you’re familiar, Tom, with Sir William Catesby and Lord Ratcliffe, former Chancellor of the Exchequer. Jen, may I present to you, the Privy Council.”

  She looked at them in disbelief.

  He wasn’t joking.

  Catesby entered first, his demeanour characteristically cold. He wore a large protective white jacket, the sort of thing she associated with a lab. Ratcliffe wore his usual suit and appeared the more annoyed of the two. He carried nothing, while Catesby held a brand-new, slick-looking revolver.

  Thomas examined both men top to bottom, strangely amused by what he saw.

  “The Cat and the Rat,” Thomas said. “Where’s the Dog?”

  Catesby’s expression hardened. “A most unreliable man; probably skulking away somewhere.”

  “Not exactly.”

  The voice came from somewhere nearby. One of the side doors opened, one Jen had tried to open earlier that day.

  “You’ve been there the whole time?” Edward asked.

  “Yes, sir, I have, and listening to every word, I might add. Might I please suggest we get some medical attention for Brother Morris and Brother Daniel.”

  Catesby removed a bandage from his jacket and approached the injured men. While Jen was baffled, it seemed obvious to Thomas that Lovell had already informed them of what had been going on.

  Catesby bandaged Morris, a makeshift job at best, before walking toward the other hooded gunman.

  “He’s dead,” Catesby affirmed, checking his vitals. He moved away from the dead friar, heading toward Lovell. The former headmaster had made it to the centre aisle.

  “You chose not to participate?”

  “I thought it wise, William, to observe and take in the proceedings from a distance. I see you both got my message.”

  Ratcliffe was confused. “What message?”

  “I sent you a text message, as well, Richard; you really must learn to use your phone.”

  Catesby’s hard façade faded. Unlike the Rat, he was a man of science.

  The grin had returned to Edward’s face. “That’s the full set. The Cat, the Rat and the Dog, Tom.”

  “What would that make you? The Hog?”

  “Not yet.” He gestured over his shoulder. Lord Jeffries had finally resorted to sitting down. Even over ten metres away the heaviness of his breathing was evident.

  “So if he’s the Hog, then what does that make you? The little piggy that went wee, wee, wee–”

  Edward thrust the gun into Thomas’s neck. “Just watch yourself. Didn’t Popup ever warn you not to antagonize someone holding a gun?”

  Thomas arched his neck, the force of the gun pressing uncomfortably against his skin. Since the arrival of Catesby, there were now two guns aimed at him.

  And only one at them.

  “Give me the gun, Jen,” Edward said.

  She refused, silently concerned she had little choice.

  “I won’t wait this time, Jen.”

  “Do as he says,” Thomas said.

  Jen looked at him, reluctant. She tried to speak, but the words were trapped in her gullet.

  “You can’t win; just d-drop it,” Thomas said.

  She took a deep breath and finally obeyed, throwing the gun on the floor. It bounced past Edward, stopping inches from Lord Ratcliffe’s feet.

  Ratcliffe picked it up. “You’re a woman of many talents, Miss Farrelly. It’s really quite a shame things had to turn out this way.”

  “It’s a shame the same can’t be said about you,” Thomas said, taking extra care to compose each word without a stutter. “I always knew you’d sell your own mother, Richard. But your country?”

  “Actually, sir, it is because of my love for this country that I agree with what you have just heard. And because of my love for my family I must seek revenge on the man who killed my own flesh and blood.”

  Thomas was confused. “You think I killed someone from your family?”

  “Yesterday at around 7pm there was an incident in Greenwich involving a small group of men and a large building; I understand you were the one with the gun.”

  “They were relatives of yours?”

  “The lad that died was me nephew.”

  Thomas strengthened his resolve.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Tom; I can call you Tom, can’t I?” he said, receiving no answer. “I know that you had no idea who it was you were shooting, and I know that you were under orders. If you want the truth, I didn’t initiate the commands yesterday; I just didn’t disagree with them.”

  “So you agree th-that you also have b-blood on your hands?”

  The comments seemed to sadden Ratcliffe. “Should I have my time over again, I daresay there are many things that I might do differently. But despite what some people may say, I’ve always stuck by my cause. Never been one to take a bribe, nor profit from another’s misfortune – at least not intentionally. If the press says otherwise, that’s up to them.”

  “The man I killed was himself a k-killer. Had he not been f-firing at me I’d have left him alone,” Thomas said with fixed determination, accompanied by a cold expression that brought fear to the heart of Lord Ratcliffe. “Who gave the order?”

  “That would have been me.”

  The voice came from the fourth pew.

  Thomas looked at Jeffries elder. “There’s bitterness in your voice, old man…in all of you.”

  “How dare you address the King,” Edward said, his fury building. “You’re not in the palace now, Tom. This is white rose country.”

  Thomas ignored him. “Why did you want to kill me?”

  Lord Jeffries laughed. “You think I would waste my time on such a minor relation?” the old man asked, coughing. “Heavens no. My greater interest was, and still remains, the men responsible for the death of my son.”

  But the King is dead.

  Thomas shrugged. “Why go to the bother? Your grandson said it himself: you have no chance of claiming the throne.”

  “You really think this is merely about reclaiming the monarchy? Sitting on an old throne, accompanied by dust and memory.” He shook his head. “I lost my son, and one of the men responsibl
e has paid.”

  Again, he was confused. “You really think my grandfather was responsible?”

  “My dear sir, your words betray you. I know you have seen the footage of many years ago with your own eyes. Had I simply wanted your grandfather dead, then, believe me, I would have completed the task long ago: be it in a cloud of smoke, a long and hardened anguish, or at the hands of an unfortunate motorist…the choices seem unlimited. Throughout my life I have been forced to endure hardships, as most men would put it, and I have at times been forced to come to terms with personal loss. But only a man who has spent the latter years of his life mourning the passing of his son can really understand the torment that I have been through these past years. The man himself may no longer be with us, but for every son, there is an heir. And until the chain is broken, the past repeats itself.”

  Thomas was now becoming alarmed. Clearly he meant the rest of his family.

  Suddenly it dawned on him. “Was that why you tried to kill us at Greenwich?” Thomas bit his lip. “Stephen?”

  Though Thomas laughed without humour, the idea brought new hatred. “I can honestly say I thought better of you. But when all is said and done, you’re nothing but a sad old man.”

  He looked to his left at Jen.

  “I tell you what, what say a trade? The great-nephew for the grandson. Only, let her go.”

  Jen felt goose bumps all the way from her neck to the bottom of her feet. She could see from the prince’s expression that there was certainty in his eyes, as if he was prepared to carry out a great duty, perhaps even destiny.

  The old man laughed, coughing again. “You are not in a situation capable of negotiation.”

  He looked at Ratcliffe, then Catesby. “Come on, chaps. No more playing games. Let her go.”

  Jen was still standing rigidly, her eyes locked on the two newcomers. “I assume you were two of the participants in Debra Harrison’s death ceremony?”

  She looked at Lovell. “And you?”

  The former headmaster was looking particularly uncomfortable.

  “Who was the fourth?”

  “I’m afraid that was me,” Edward confessed, remorse absent from his eyes. “There will always be sacrifices, Jen. Nobody likes them.”