The Plantagenet Vendetta (33 page)

The priest heard something.

Were his senses deceiving him?

It sounded like breathing.

Jen edged backwards, guiding Anthea with her hands. Moving without paying attention to her feet was a risk, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the light.

The passageway continued upwards. Like the other corridor, it was stone, vaulted and very smooth beneath her feet.

The light from the other room was moving in a different direction.

She turned and for the first time started walking forward.

The priest called out again, his voice echoing. He considered turning off the light, but realised that would be foolish.

God knows what could happen if he exposed himself.

He shone the torch on the next wall. A large tapestry hung behind the most important of the kings, its once fine appearance ruined by centuries of decay. The sight of it made him shudder.

He breathed in deeply and then out again.

Then he heard movement from somewhere close by.

Jen’s pace had picked up. She continued to hold Anthea’s hand, doing her best to reassure her.

“Come on, we’re nearly there.”

That was a guess, but Anthea accepted it.

The tunnel passed several rooms, all of which appeared empty and contained nothing of interest. Even if they did, Jen was in no frame of mind to study them.

Suddenly the light changed. There was an outline visible in front of them, square shaped.

“Come on,” Jen said. “We’re nearly there.”

The priest found the passageway by accident. Though aware of its existence, he had never seen it before.

He wandered about twenty metres along and stopped. He sensed there was something in front of him, but he couldn’t see it, even with the torch.

After several seconds he abandoned the chase.

He knew all too well where the passageway ended.

The tunnel ended unexpectedly: no steps, no variation in the slope, no warning whatsoever. Jen knew from the incline that they had been heading upwards, probably about ten degrees.

They came out side by side in an area of dense greenery. Though neither of them had any idea where they were, it was obvious the area had not been cared for.

There was a house to their right, large and well lit. Jen could tell from the layout that it was one of the Ravensfield mansions.

For the first time she noticed ruins around her.

“This is a castle,” Jen said. She had been expecting the priory. “This is the castle.”

Anthea was now seriously worried. “We’re in Lord Jeffries’ garden. He never lets anyone on his land.”

The penny had completely dropped.

Jen looked around the grounds, studying every possible detail. Although it was dark, she was still able to make out the layout.

“Where’s the best way out?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think, Anthea. You know the village better than me.”

The poor girl racked her brain. “The church is over there.” She pointed. “The path that we walked yesterday is over there.”

That told Jen they needed to walk away from the house.

“Let’s get out before anybody sees us.”

At around the same time, the biker pulled up at the gateway of Wootton Court. Travelling all that way by bike had been difficult, but he knew he had little choice.

He waited for the gate to open before continuing along the driveway. He parked in the usual place, along the side of the house, and was escorted inside by the butler.

Jeffries was having supper at the time. He was seated in the usual place: the head of the table. The setting was ostentatious and rich in candelabra, all of which were lit. Five sets of grand silver tableware had been placed at equal intervals on a white tablecloth that covered the entire table. Numerous paintings and other works of art were hung on the walls, and a large log fire was blazing brightly in the fireplace, though, given the size of the room, clearly more for decoration than warmth.

Four other people were present.

Facing Jeffries, at the opposite end of the table, Sir William Catesby was enjoying his soup. The remaining guests were Ratcliffe, Lovell and Stanley, who was clearly surprised by the unexpected arrival of his son.

“Burghart?”

He ignored his father. “Forgive the disturbance, gentlemen; I assure you it is most necessary.”

Jeffries’ expression was hostile. “You think of us as dumb, or deaf, or blind? They have been talking about your incompetence on the television for hours.”

“It is true that things have not gone to plan,” he replied, addressing Jeffries. He then looked seriously at the man nearest to him.

“Lord Ratcliffe, I’m grieved to inform you that your nephew is dead.”

Less than a mile away, Caroline pulled up on the high street and switched off the engine. She had not seen the biker for over three hours, but she was aware from her communication with the palace that the satellites had tracked it here.

The village of Wootton-on-the-Moor.

She removed her mobile phone from the hands-free holder and scanned the contacts list. She had not spoken to Thomas or Stephen for well over three hours.

The Home Secretary was appalled by what he had just heard.

“Absolutely not; it’s not only out of the question but illegal.”

He placed his hands to his head, feeling sweat on his forehead.

West understood his concerns. “I admit it’s a gamble,” he returned. “But worth it.”

The Home Secretary shook his head.

“If anyone asks, Minister, deny the whole thing.”

49

Thomas pulled up outside a mansion in Richmond. The house was Palladian design: Georgian and grandiose with a brilliant white exterior.

Thomas monitored the entrance from the gateway. Like the previous house, the lights were on.

Stephen’s expression was stern. “Shall we?”

Thomas was far more disheartened. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather do this one alone.”

The man with the scar was in the library when the doorbell rang. About three minutes later the butler entered and announced his distinguished guest.

“Prince Thomas, sir.”

The man with the scar removed his monocle and turned in his seat. The prince was well dressed, but looked slightly exhausted.

He smiled at his former protégé. “Come on in, old boy, don’t stand on ceremony.”

“I’ll bring tea immediately,” the butler said, departing.

Thomas remained standing by the doorway. He forced an awkward smile, the best he could muster. His heart was suddenly feeling heavy. He had seen the library, the personal pride of James Gardiner, on many occasions. Several watercolour and oil paintings lined large cream-coloured walls that always seemed immaculate. The smell of old library-bound leather teased the nostrils. He guessed at least ten thousand books and manuscripts filled the shelves of the thirty-plus bookcases that lined every corner of the room.

The setting was the same as usual, but today it seemed slightly different somehow.

He looked at the man, a man he had known his entire life.

James Gardiner.

Earl of Somerset.

Brother of the late queen.

Uncle of his father and the current king.

His great-uncle.

The man smiled at him. “You’re up late tonight, Tom. Everything all right?”

The silence was unsettling. The prince detected the man’s unease.

“All these books,” Thomas said, wandering one way then the other. “A life well spent?”

The old man was confused. “As you know, most of them were gifts, many from your grandfather I might add…forgive me, old fellow, but is everything all right?”

Thomas’s grin developed into an awkward laugh. “I don’t really know; it’s been quite a long day.” He shook his head. “And how about you, Uncle? H-how you been diddling?”

Gardiner raised an eyebrow. “Does your father know you use language like that?”

“As far as I’m aware my f-father doesn’t know I’m here. In fact, there are many things my f-father doesn’t know. Nor his brother, f-for that matter.”

Gardiner was completely baffled. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been watching the news, I-I assume?”

“Bits of it.”

“You’ve n-no doubt heard about the explosion in Greenwich.”

“Should I?”

The prince shrugged. “I was there, you know – Stephen and I. Blown up it was, b-by the Sons of York.”

The butler returned carrying a tray of cutlery and the usual tea service.

“Will that be all, sir?”

He left receiving no response.

The earl waited until the butler had left. “My dear fellow, it sounds as if you’ve had quite an ordeal. Sit, have some tea.”

Thomas watched as the earl poured tea into two cups, followed by sugar.

“I know, Jimmy,” the prince said softly.

The historian didn’t catch on. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I saw the article in the
Chronicle
. I s-spoke to the j-journalist.”

He looked him in the eye.

“I know you leaked the information. I know you told him about my grandfather’s murder.”

Gardiner remained unmoved. His expression was stern, but his body language confirmed the bombshell.

“My dear boy, you’re delirious, you–”

“Don’t lie to me,” Thomas shouted. He tried for several seconds to get the words out. “After all these years.”

“Really, Tom, it’s not as bad as all that.”

He shook his head. “Why?”

The man stirred his tea, his eyes never leaving the prince. “All right, if you really want to know: because you and your silly relatives remain incapable of seeing beyond the end of your bloody noses. Ever since the death of my beloved sister I tried to warn your father, your uncle, your grandfather, about the dangers posed by the Sons of York, and all I got was to be shot down.”

He pointed his finger at the prince.

“Finally I have your attention. Finally I’ve made you listen.”

He said the final word loudly.

“What are you babbling about?”

The old man laughed. “Your speech is improving, Tom. Therapy working, is it? You should be proud of yourself. It takes great character to overcome the things you’ve had to.”

He looked up at the prince, who was standing with his arms folded.

“Come, sit, have some tea before it goes cold.”

Thomas didn’t move. “You never told me about the Sons of York. I’d have listened.”

“Would you? Like two days ago, when you motored past me in the grounds? The next day when you refused to answer my call?”

“I was in a hurry then.”

“And now?” the old man said, concentrating on the prince. “You know, once upon a time I would have been taken seriously. You know the Sons of York were once believed by your ancestors to be the greatest threat posed to the kingdom. George III went mad with worry; Victoria nearly abdicated because of their threats.”

“Don’t patronise me, Jim.”

“You think I’m fibbing?” He shook his head. “An historian’s only aim is to find out the truth, you know that.”

“There’s a difference between truth and fact.”

“Only in definition, come on, Tom, game playing gets us nowhere.”

He agreed with that. “Go on. I’m here, listening.” He checked his watch. “It’s 11:45pm, and I have nowhere left to go. So, please, Jim, I demand an explanation.”

The old man set himself up for a long story.

“I suppose in a way, like all great kings, your grandfather, too, was made to suffer the curse of the monarch. No fewer than six attempts were made on his life of which I am aware. Two, we can put down to lone wolves. Three were from abroad. The other…well…”

Thomas bit his lip. It was obvious he was talking about the event that killed him.

“Prior to the First World War, and again just after, there were a group of intelligence officers known as the OWLS. It basically meant all-seeing. There were about twelve officers in all. In the wars they moved more in military campaigns. Then your grandfather, in agreement with the Cabinet, disbanded them.”

“Why?”

“Apparently they believed they served no future purpose,” Gardiner said, sipping his tea. “In my opinion that was possibly the greatest mistake of the past century.”

For several seconds nothing was said.

Thomas broke the silence. “Who were they? The Sons of York, wh-who are they now?”

“You know exactly who they are now; you’ve met them.”

“I know only that they were sh-shooting at me. Who are they?”

The historian said nothing, instead concentrating intently on his tea. Thomas finally sat down. He picked up his teacup and sipped from it. “Earl Grey. You always did like tea with lemon.”

“Don’t patronize me, you ungrateful berk. More often than not, it’s overconfidence that leads to demise.”

The prince bit his tongue. “Jim, for God’s sake. What happened?”

The man sat back in his chair. “I suppose in a way it all goes back to the early years.”

“What? The 1950s?”

“No. The 1060s. Or perhaps of greater relevance, the 1370s.

“One might argue it all began with Edward III. Now there was a monarch. You know all about him, of course? Son of Edward II, grandson of Edward I, great-grandson of Henry III, great-great-grandson of King John–”

“Dammit, Jim.” The shout caused the china to move. “Get to the damn point.”

The old man saw fire in the prince’s eyes.

“In many ways, Edward III was the perfect monarch. He was brave, just, kind…

“The problem was that Edward III reigned too long and had far too many children. His successor should have been called Edward IV, but unfortunately England’s greatest king that never was died a year too early, in 1376. A legend in his own right, I’m sure you know of whom I speak.”

“The Black Prince.”

The historian nodded. “The Black Prince was famed throughout all of Europe as the next great King of England. But prior to that time, among his five adult sons, King Edward III created England’s first ever dukedoms: Cornwall, Gloucester, Lancaster, York, and, alas, Clarence.”

Thomas noticed the unnecessary emphasis on Clarence.

The earl resumed, “In time, on such decisions, the fate of England would rest. With the Black Prince dead, the right of succession fell to his son rather than one of his younger brothers. The problem was, the new heir was far too young, a minor by all accounts, forced to rule over an England dominated by dukes. You know, of course, of whom I speak.”

“Richard II.”

“Hmm. Richard II was never under any circumstances fit to rule as King of England during the 1380s. His inability to impose his authority led to revolt by peasant and nobleman alike. But even more importantly, the king failed to father an heir. Without a direct successor, the throne was set to pass to the young Edmund Mortimer. Until, however, it was usurped by another.”

“Bolingbroke.”

“Eldest son of John of Gaunt, and henceforth Henry IV. Indirectly, the man responsible for this whole web of intrigue and first upholder of the line of Lancaster.”

The historian refilled his cup.

“You think we might sk-skip the history lesson?” Thomas asked.

“You asked me about the Sons of York.”

“I did. However, I was thinking more along the l-lines of their r-relevance to the p-present.”

The earl was unmoved. “To understand the activities of the present, it is vital one first understands their motives. The answers to all that has happened, recently and before, began on the battlefields of Medieval England.”

Thomas remained silent.

“Rebellions by the Mortimers achieved little, and when Bolingbroke died, humbled and slightly paranoid, it was up to his son, Henry V, to pacify a still-troubled nation.”

Thomas waited until he was sure that the man had stopped speaking. “Didn’t he?”

“I should say that he did. But then history played its greatest trick: the perfect king died young. Thus began the reign of Henry V’s infant son: henceforth Henry VI.”

The earl sipped again from his tea and placed his cup down on the saucer.

“Of course, to make matters worse, the brothers of Henry V produced no legitimate offspring. When the new king’s uncle, the Duke of Bedford, died in 1435, the thirteen-year-old king was left with nothing but a council of quarrelsome meddlers. In fourteen short years, the position of the House of Lancaster had slipped from secure to susceptible, while that of the House of York had strengthened considerably. The land in France was lost; the king’s reputation suffered. Whereas his father had been strong, the son was seen to be weak.

“Over the next twenty years, the fate of England rested on a knife edge. During that time, more uprisings and rebellions are documented to have occurred than at any other time since the Conquest.

“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.”