The Plantagenet Vendetta (40 page)

Thomas followed the road away from the church, heading back to the high street. As he drove, he looked into the rear-view mirror. Ignoring the unshaven shabby appearance that he barely recognised, he focused on the road behind him.

There was a building beside the church, perhaps several, though most were further away. The buildings were grand: like manor houses or something of equal prestige.

He guessed Jeffries lived in one of them.

He continued to the T-junction, his mind still on the area behind him.

Then something startled him.

Out of the silence, he heard a gunshot.

Jen screamed, a high-pitched whine. Two shots had been fired, the bullets missing her by a matter of inches.

She ducked to one side and stumbled, barely making it to the pavement. She felt the impact on her knees, but also her left shoulder.

She rolled, trying to get to her feet. As she did, she felt the asphalt graze her cheek. She feared to look, or even open her eyes. She could hear the man’s footsteps accompanied by the sound of the weapon being reloaded.

She scampered to her feet and screamed as loudly as her lungs would allow. She moved toward the T-junction, looking for any sign of life. Incredibly she was still alone, the hooded gunman the only person close to her. Even the recently furious Martha Brown had disappeared from sight.

Please God to call the police.

She continued forward, but her progress was interrupted by another fall. She rolled instinctively, her nerves going into overdrive as she heard the sound of the gun going off. As before, she heard two shots in close succession, the latest uncomfortably close. Her left ear felt hot, particularly at the top.

She knew the bullet had grazed her.

Sure enough, it had drawn blood.

Thomas eased forward, unsure what had happened. He heard another shot, perhaps two. Instinct told him it had come from somewhere in front of him, but buildings on the left and right blocked the view to the high street.

He drove forward, stopping on reaching the junction. To his left, a man dressed in the habit and cloak of a Dominican friar was reloading what looked like a double-barrelled shotgun, his target a blonde woman aged somewhere in the mid-twenties. He saw him fire twice in quick succession.

The woman was on the ground, evidently still alive.

Thomas reacted instantly, ramming through the gears and flooring the accelerator. He braked as late as possible, the screeching tyres smoking as he took the corner and emerged onto the high street.

The girl was on the road, trying to get to her feet. She saw the car as Thomas took the turn, her expression one of bewilderment.

He slammed on the brakes and leaned across to open the door.

“Get in.”

65

For what seemed like a lifetime, the blonde girl did nothing.

All the while, the friar was reloading.

Thomas shouted, “Come on.”

This time Jen obeyed. Keeping her head low, she sprinted toward the door and dived across the front passenger seat.

Thomas wasted no time. He floored the accelerator, and the tyres spun furiously, causing smoke to rise from the front two. The smell of burning rubber momentarily overwhelmed that of disused shotgun cartridges as the smoke permeated through the open window.

The gunman had reloaded and was aiming directly at the car. He unleashed one at the windscreen, causing the glass to break.

Jen screamed loudly.

“Stay down,” Thomas shouted.

A second round came, also a direct hit. Glass entered the car, but the windscreen itself remained intact.

Just.

The gunman was forced to reload.

Thomas put his foot down, now on collision course with the shooter. He was less than twenty metres away, fifteen, ten, five…

The friar dived, far too late. The impact occurred on the left side, more a passing blow than a head-on collision. Thomas could see from the rear-view mirror that the man was flat out on the road, motionless but probably not dead.

Thomas guessed the injury was to the upper body rather than the head.

He continued through the village, his eyes alternating between the road and the rear-view mirror. Seconds later the high street was no longer in view.

He turned his attention to Jen, surveying her appearance for the first time. She was crying, the tears ruining her black eyeliner. She was more attractive than he had expected, but in a state.

He guessed from her lack of make-up she’d had a bad day.

At least the hairdresser’s story checked out.

“It’s okay; you’re safe.”

Jen didn’t respond. She tried to control herself, but doing so was becoming more and more difficult. She wiped her eyes, doing everything she could to keep the floodgates shut.

The last thing she needed was to lose control of her emotions.

Thomas, meanwhile, watched with pity. His natural instinct was to pull over and comfort her, but he forced himself to be disciplined.

He knew further danger was probably still close at hand.

Jen looked as though she was going to vomit.

“Here, drink this.” He passed her a half-f bottle of mineral water from the cup holder.

Jen opened the bottle and coughed immediately. The liquid simply refused to go down.

“Slowly.”

She tried again, this time with more success. She spilt some on her jeans, but most of it went down, calming her nerves slightly.

She closed the bottle and placed it on the floor, concentrating now on her breathing. She wiped her eyes, composing herself.

Thomas watched her, convinced she was in a fit state to be questioned.

“What happened?”

She looked to her right at the stranger. She tried to speak but failed.

“Wh-who was that man?”

She still had no idea.

“What happened?” he asked, slightly louder.

She sought to reply, but the words just refused to come.

What on earth had just happened?

“Who are you?” This time the question came from Jen.

Thomas was determined not to stutter. “I’m the son of the Duke of Clarence – nephew of the king.”

You’re kidding.

No, he isn’t kidding.

“Okay.” For several seconds she merely sat and watched as he drove her through the isolated roads. Although the route was familiar from her earlier journey, she had no idea where he was taking her.

“I take it you’re Jennifer Farrelly?”

She nodded, incapable of anything else. “And you? Do you have a name?”

He hesitated. “T-Thomas.”

She studied him for the first time. He was handsome, as expected – what royal isn’t? Or at least that was the fantasy.

He was well built, his figure befitting an army pedigree – or at least something from the forces. He was handsome – wait, she’d established that – though slightly ragged. She guessed he hadn’t slept much recently.

Thomas looked to his left. “What?”

“What are you doing here?”

He didn’t reply. Silently he guessed she already knew, assuming the hairdresser wasn’t lying.

“How did you know my name?”

“I m-met your friend.”

“Friend?” Suddenly it dawned on her. “Anthea?”

“You needn’t worry. She’s safe.”

If anything, that made her even more insecure. “You abducted her?”

“Of course not, it’s a l-long story.”

“I’m in no hurry.”

“I’m afraid that’s where you’re wrong,” the prince said, his tone firmer than before. “Time is the one thing that we don’t have. Wh-what are you doing here, anyway?”

“I was being shot at – remember?”

He let the comment go. “Your friend said you were researching a documentary on the g-girl who went m-missing.”

“That’s right.” She looked at him. “What?”

“You seem to have outstayed your welcome.”

He turned down a quiet lane, heading toward the boathouse.

“There was a man dressed in the habit of a Dominican friar firing at you.”

“Yeah. I noticed.”

“Had you seen him before?”

“What?”

“The friar – had you seen him?”

Jen was appalled. “Of course not.”

“So you didn’t recognise him?”

“No,” she said, apparently baffled by the question. “Had you?”

The prince was not amused. “You’re quite certain you had never seen him before?”

“Yes, I’ve only been here a few days.”

“That’s often quite long enough. What happened? Just now, wh-what happened?”

Jen took a deep breath. She told him everything that had happened after leaving the hairdresser’s.

“There was no warning?”

“None.”

“And you’re certain you didn’t recognise him?”

She looked as if to hit him. “No.”

This time he believed her. “Okay. But why was he shooting at you? Come on, you must have some idea? Things like this don’t j-just happen without good reason.”

This time it was Jen’s turn to be coy. She guessed the prince, if indeed he was a prince, probably knew more than she did.

“I’ve never seen him before.”

“You’ve established that,” he said. “Tell me about the vault?”

“The what?”

“Your friend told us there was a vault – she also t-told us about the churchyard.”

The surprise was etched all over her face. At least she knew that Anthea was safe.

She told him everything – finishing with Stephanie Stanley and the likely murder of Luke Rankin. She could tell by the prince’s reaction that he was taking it seriously.

Perhaps extra seriously.

He pulled up in the car park of the boathouse and removed his seatbelt.

He looked at her sternly, remaining seated. “Tell me everything you know about the Sons of York.”

“I only heard of them for the first time earlier today.”

That makes two of us.
“What do you know?”

“Probably less than you.”

“Actually, I know very little.”

She didn’t buy it. “We got into the vault via a secret passage – it started in the priory, and another ended up at the castle.”

“Go on.”

“There’s a door in the church vaults, but it’s locked. When I asked the priest for the key, he gave me some cock-and-bull story about it being unsafe.”

“In what way?”

“He said it was used to house the remains of plague victims.”

“You mean he lied?”

“Obviously.”

“What sparked your interest in the vault?”

“I thought Debra Harrison might be buried there.”

“Is she?”

“No…well…I don’t know.”

In truth she had never considered that since yesterday.

Thomas was equally uncomfortable. “Wh-what was there?”

“You’re a member of the Royal Family; how can you not know?”

“Just because I’m royal…” His voice trailed off. “Just answer the question.”

“Why?”

Did she really just demand that?

“I spoke to her best friend today – her name’s Stephanie; her uncle is a member.”

His interest heightened. “What’s his name?”

“Rowland Stanley, the politician. All of them live in houses east of the church. Ravensfield, it’s called.”

The prince couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Verification of the location of the mysterious Ravensfield.

To him it was also confirmation that the society was close knit.

“Go on.”

“Their most prominent members are Lord Ratcliffe, Sir William Catesby and Francis Lovell. Lovell is a former headmaster of the school, Catesby is a scientist or something, Ratcliffe…well, I guess you know.”

Thomas bit his lip, this time harder than before.

The Cat, the Rat and the Dog.

It was all too incredible.

“But why? To what purpose?”

“According to Stephanie, among their ranks are many politicians, particularly from the Democrats.”

Everything he heard agreed with what he had learned the day before. “To what end?”

She sighed. “According to Stephanie, their long-term agenda is to re-establish the Angevin Empire by taking power in the governments of Britain and Europe – including ridding England of the Royal Family. It wishes to gain control of both the UK and the EU through the establishment of a Democrat government.”

“That’s preposterous. There have already been Democrat governments.”

She nodded. “Apparently this all goes back centuries; back to the Whigs. Besides, I think the Democrat movement is just the flagship. According to Stephanie, their influence spans all parties. They have support from many in the Tories.”

“Impossible. We’d know.”

She raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Silently Thomas was worried.

He still had no idea why the politicians Trenton and Bates were murdered.

“How does she know?”

Jen delved into her handbag and removed the photographs Stephanie had given her.

She offered them to the prince.

His attention centred on the coronation photo. “Edward.”

She nodded.

He looked at Jen, then to his right. Caroline was running toward them.

“Stephen called. The results of the DNA test have come through.”