The Plantagenet Vendetta (7 page)

9

Buckingham Palace

The young man strode purposefully up the stairs and turned left on reaching the second-floor corridor. After twenty-eight years, he knew every inch of the building, and the various artworks, mostly portraits of his family and ancestors, appeared as little more than dots on the landscape.

He knew the stories of most, and of the remainder he had at least a passing knowledge. As a Winchester, his education had included detailed study of the family’s history from an early age, but, unlike some of his relatives, for him, it had continued into adulthood. As usual for members of his family, his life up until now had largely been mapped out for him. His education had included five years of boarding at Winchester College, followed by a degree at Oxford. Keeping to the strengths of his youth, he chose history.

It had been both a blessing and a curse.

The young man followed the corridor toward one of the far doors and stopped as he passed a mirror.

He looked himself over. His brown hair was slightly askew, the inevitable result of over an hour standing in the windy grounds. He hated the formal occasions, particularly when they were televised.

At least this one was over.

Satisfied he appeared presentable, he continued to the far door and knocked. Immediately he was welcomed.

Like most rooms in the palace, the setting was lavish and the furniture predominantly Victorian. A brown French carpet from the 18th century covered the wooden floor, surrounded by an antique chest and several side tables decorated with photographs of the present family. Two large portraits of his grandparents hung from the bright cyan-coloured walls, accompanied by masterpieces by Canaletto, Gainsborough and Monet, and a gilt mirror that reflected the evening sunlight as it entered through the large windows overlooking the grounds.

Standing by the windows was his uncle, better known to most as His Majesty King Stephen II. He had reigned less than a month and was still to be crowned.

The King smiled at his nephew. “Take off your jacket, Thomas – there’s a good chap.”

The prince obeyed, taking care to fold the fine material before placing it down on the back of the nearest chair. Beneath it, he wore the black regimental uniform of an army captain.

Standing opposite, the King was also dressed in military uniform, in his case an Admiral of the Fleet, a courtesy for the sovereign, but only a small exaggeration of his real-life service, peaking at the rank of commodore.

“Father says you wished to see me, M-Majesty,” the young man stuttered on the final word.

The King smiled at him. “You know you don’t have to call me that, Thomas. Least not when we are alone.”

The young man felt slightly foolish. “Yes, Uncle.”

The King looked again through the window, his eyes on the forecourt. Though the recent ceremony had passed without a hitch, his mind was troubled.

“I’m afraid, Thomas, that once again I must ask too much of you.”

The King turned toward his nephew.

“I assume your father has already given you the gist,” the King said. “You are aware, Thomas, of our friend’s claim regarding the two politicians?”

The young man stood rigidly with his hands down by his sides. “I know only of the claim; I d-didn’t realise the findings have been c-confirmed.”

“Well, Thomas, I’m afraid they have; Bridges gave me the news not two hours ago. Frankly, I think he seemed a little reluctant to give it.”

Again the prince hesitated. “Well, he always did have your b-best interests at h-heart.”

The King smiled again. “So he keeps telling me.”

The young man watched as the King slowly began to pace around his desk. His outward appearance was as smart as ever, but today Thomas noticed a certain remoteness in him. As an Englishman, he knew the man’s past, but as a relative, he knew the man himself. He had encountered sorrow, and not just recently. He had lost his wife, the would-be queen, within a year of losing his mother. The young man had never seen him show much emotion.

Today was no exception.

“How about the m-motive?”

The King walked slowly around the desk. “Thomas, before the funeral I asked Dr Grant to use his contacts in the profession to carry out various tests on the condition of my father at the time of his death. It was not until today that he received the results.”

Thomas wondered where this was going. As a minor royal he was used to being on the fringe of the ins and outs of royal protocol, but since graduating from Sandhurst, his role had changed beyond recognition.

To the outside world, he was a captain in the army. On the inside, his role had no formal job description.

He was, in the words of his father, the protector.

“Despite our strongest hopes and prayers, the tests proved conclusive,” the King began. “Your grandfather, Tom, was murdered.”

Thomas swallowed, an unavoidable reflex. It took him several seconds to muster a response. “What happened?”

“We don’t know, at least not entirely,” the King said. “According to our only suspect, he was working on behalf of something called the Sons of York.”

The name meant nothing to Thomas.

“Prior to my father’s death, he received this.” He showed Thomas a piece of paper. “Sadly, Father didn’t tell me about it at the time. Unfortunately we have been unable to establish either when or from where it was sent.”

Thomas accepted the paper and scanned the text. It was an A4 sheet and typewritten.

Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by these Sons of York

“Shakespeare,” he said. “It’s been changed. These Sons, instead of this s-sun.”

“Exactly.”

The young man was confused. “Who are they?”

The King laughed, only without humour. “Legend has it, letters of this kind have been sent to members of our family throughout history. This is the first I’ve seen.”

The King turned toward the desk.

“Until recently I had no knowledge of the matter whatsoever. In truth, I had believed the stories to be nothing more than a myth. Hard evidence, sadly, is minimal. I discussed the matter a few days ago with your father. Apparently this is the best we have.”

The King picked up two books from his desk and showed them to Thomas. Neither of them was modern.

“According to this,” the King opened the first book to around the midpoint, “published by a local historian in 1712, the writer talks about the existence of the Sons of York as far back as the 1600s. This man, apparently, was their most famous member.”

“Monmouth,” Thomas said, recognising the facsimile of a famous portrait. The man was James Scott, 1st Duke of Monmouth. Illegitimate son of Charles II. As a history graduate, Thomas knew the man had been the chief instigator of the failed Monmouth Rebellion in 1685 against James II.

“Again, your knowledge serves you well. If the writer of the work is to be believed, he had access to rare sources, including those once owned by Monmouth himself. Sadly we are unsure which.”

“Th-they c-could be forgeries.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. From what your father tells me, the originals might have been destroyed in the 1800s. No official reason given. However, according to this second book, apparently one of the Pitts personally saw a copy and found the revelations ‘compromising’.”

The King paused. “A few days ago we received another message.” He picked up a second document from the desk. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the rhyme.”

The King cleared his throat.

“Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,

“Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie,

“When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing,

“Wasn’t that a dangerous dish to set before a king?”

“Dangerous?” the prince interrupted, noticing the obvious change.

“It goes on.” The King passed him the sheet.

Thomas read the content quickly.

The King was in his counting house, counting out his money,

The queens were in the parlour, eating bread and honey,

The princess was in the garden, nattering on her phone,

When down came a blackbird and pecked off her nose.

They sent for the duke’s doctor,

Who sewed it on again;

He sewed it on so neatly,

The seam was never seen.

“The ending is new.”

“No,” the King corrected. “Just less common.”

“The duke’s doctor.”

“Right. That has changed.”

The prince read it again. “Here. The maid was in the garden.”

“Yes. That has also changed.”

Thomas read it through several times. Suddenly it struck him.

“Queens,” he said. “Not one queen. Two.”

The King took a deep breath. “I think it’s referring to my wife and mother.”

Thomas was speechless. The king’s wife had died three years ago, within a year of the king’s mother.

“Eating bread and honey?”

The King closed his eyes, an extended pause. “Mother was found in the pantry. Matilda in the lounge. The official diagnosis for both was food poisoning.”

Thomas nodded, trying his best to remain calm. As a royal, he remembered the deaths of his aunt and grandmother well. The official verdict on their deaths was illness, but he knew the true cause remained unsolved.

“Which king?” Thomas asked.

“What?”

“The king in the c-counting house. Which k-king?”

“In the original rhyme I believe it might have been Henry VII. Famed administrator.”

The King looked again at his desk. “Which reminds me. According to your father, the two books have one thing in common. Apparently both make reference to the same source.”

The King opened the second book and showed Thomas the line of relevance. “According to the book, the source in question was something called the Ravensfield Chronicle. Does this mean anything to you?”

Thomas read the page in its entirety before responding. “No. But I have heard of this.” He pointed to another part of the page. “The Croyland Chronicle. Written in 1486. B-banned by order of Henry VII.”

The King let out a rare smile. “Once again, you never cease to amaze me with your knowledge.”

“You ask of me only to be a historian?”

The King delayed his response. “If only it were that simple.”

He picked out two more papers of relevance from the pile on his desk and immediately set about organising them.

“Since the 1700s, many people have been intrigued, apparently, with the legend of the Sons of York. In recent years it has apparently become something of an obsession for the revisionist historian.”

The King showed him the two newest papers. Both were Internet printouts.

“According to your father, the two books I’ve just shown you could well be the only two in existence that offer anything remotely interesting on the Sons of York. Interestingly, both books were published posthumously and were incomplete at the time their authors died. Even more bizarre, the authors died in peculiar circumstances. Furthermore, both were historians living in the north of England.”

Thomas accepted the printouts and read them quickly. Both were
Dictionary of National Biography
overviews of the authors’ lives.

Both had apparently been murdered.

“According to Bridges, the possibility of a connection between the two politicians and my father cannot be ruled out. If our friar friend is telling the truth, we must also consider the possibility that there is a connection between these as well.”

Thomas was practically speechless. “These go back centuries.”

“As I say, Thomas, all we have is speculation,” the King said. “But I must confess this is not totally new. I remember a number of years ago I brought up the subject with my uncle Albert. Apparently my grandfather believed in their historicity…according to Uncle Albert, they were none too pleased with his controversial marriage.”

The young man was captivated. “You b-believe they exist? And have done throughout h-history?”

The King’s expression was grave. “All I know to be true, Tom, is that two politicians have been murdered, and the only evidence we have is from the ravings of a Dominican friar who, according to Bridges, is madder than the Mad Mahdi.”

It was clear that the King’s joke was not intended to be humorous. “You believe him to be genuine?”

“Ever since my father died, I’ve had people telling me one thing, and others telling me something else. Two months ago, in all honesty, I would most probably have ignored the lot of them. Yet that was before I became king.”

The young man bit his lip. “I suppose s-satisfactory diplomacy leads one to sometimes forego the opinion of one’s own gut.”

The King laughed to himself. “Yes, it certainly feels that way.”

The prince looked again at the printouts, then at the King. “Wh-what exactly did my father say?”

“Frankly, he seemed equally disturbed by the matter. Disturbed, or at least, perplexed. Without question, something relating to the Sons of York is factual. What are less clear are the identities of the people behind them.”

The King looked at his nephew, this time more seriously. “In truth, I was hoping these tests might have put the matter to bed.”

The young man understood the significance. “You believe that the p-politicians were killed by a man who b-believes himself to be a m-member?”

“Our friend is currently being held in our most secure location. If he is as mad as they say he is, then surely you won’t learn much from him.

“But even if our friend does decide to keep mum, it is here,” the King said, pointing to the pile of papers and books on his desk, “where the trail seems to be at its warmest.

“What I must ask of you, is to find out just how warm it is.”