The King's Deception (40 page)

At the time he’d worn his red hair long, his muscles and bones slim, trim, and feminine. In fact, he’d always thought himself trapped. His body that of a man, his mind a woman. The conflict had raged in him since he was old enough to remember. The opportunity his mother offered would end that debate. He would become a woman, taking the princess Elizabeth’s identity in every way
.

That happened in 1546. No one at the time considered that he might one day be queen. The idea had simply been to placate Henry and save the lives of Kate Ashley and Thomas Parry. Many obstacles remained in the path to the throne. Edward still lived, as did Mary. Elizabeth, at best, was third in line but only if a half brother and sister died without heirs. The subterfuge, though, worked and, as years passed, the grandson blossomed behind the heavy makeup, wigs, and billowing dresses that became his trademark. Lady Ashley tended to his every need, as did Thomas Parry, and no one ever suspected any deceit. Twelve years passed and both Edward and Mary died with no heirs. His mother, Mary Howard, also died. He was alone, no identity save for the one created by him as the princess Elizabeth. Then, at age 25, he became queen. When I inquired how the deception was maintained after he was crowned, he became whimsical. He assured me that so long as one was careful and diligent, there was no fear of any revelation. Lady Ashley served the queen until 1565, when she died
.

“One of the saddest days of our life,” he told me, eyes reddening, though 33 years had passed
.

Thomas Parry died in 1560, barely two years into the reign. He was never a popular man at court, and many said he left this world of mere ill humor. Of course, he conceived the deception so he always remained close to the queen. Knighted, he served as controller of the royal household. My father told me that the queen paid for his funeral in Westminster, which was never understood by me until that day at Nonsuch
.

Blanche Parry became the queen’s Chief Gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber after Lady Ashley’s death and served until 1590. Though never acknowledged, Lady Parry was surely aware of the deception. The queen treated her as a baroness, granting her two wardships in Yorkshire and Wales, and burying her in St. Margaret’s Chapel, Westminster, with all the pomp of royalty
.

“So long as we do certain things in private,” the queen explained, “no one could ever know.”

Which explained many of the habits. He dressed in private and bathed only with either Lady Ashley or Parry in attendance. He owned an array of eighty wigs and insisted on clothing that concealed his chest and lacked contour from the waist down. He wore heavy white makeup on his face, a sign of purity many observers noted, but it also allowed a masking of features. Always more feminine than masculine, he had sparse hair on his body, including the head, as he’d inherited the Tudor tendency toward baldness. Doctors were allowed to treat him, but never to examine anything more than his eyes, mouth, and throat. At no time could anyone touch his person, and few ever did
.

I left the encounter that day feeling both scared and satisfied. This man, who had by then ably ruled England for thirty-nine years, perhaps better than any monarch before, was an imposter. He possessed no right to the throne, yet he occupied it, as completely and thoroughly as if Elizabeth herself had survived. The people loved him, the queen’s popularity never in question. My father had made me pledge to serve him and that I did, until the day he died in 1603. Ever vigilant, he left specific instructions that no autopsy would be performed and none was. I was told by the queen exactly what to do with the body, which I followed only somewhat precisely
.

“It seems Robert Cecil lived up to his nickname,” Miss Mary said. “The Fox.”

Ian was curious. “What does that mean,
somewhat precisely
?”

“That he chose what he wanted to respect and ignored the rest. Which explains why his journal even exists. He seems to have wanted people to know the truth.”

The train stopped at a station.

He and Miss Mary exited, then wound their way around to a connector line that would take them to The Goring Hotel.

Once inside the new train he asked, “Can we read some more?”

Miss Mary smiled in her warm way. “Of course. I’m as curious as you seem to be.”

W
HEN MY FATHER SERVED THE QUEEN
I,
ALONG WITH A GREAT MANY
,
WONDERED
why she never married. King Henry was obsessive in his desire to secure a male heir. Queen Mary likewise tried and failed to birth a child. There were many offers of marriage toward Elizabeth, both domestic and foreign. Lord Robert Dudley seemed the favorite, but my father openly despised him and the queen publicly bowed to his will and did not marry Dudley. The queen also rejected Philip II of Spain, Archduke Charles of Austria, and two French princes. When Parliament urged a marriage or the nomination of an heir, the queen refused to do either. Since my father knew the truth, he understood why that could not be. But every offer, every insistence, every Parliamentary urging was maximized for political advantage. She told the House of Commons that
, “in the end, this shall be sufficient, that a marble stone shall declare that a queen, having reigned such a time, lived and died a virgin.”

For the poets she became the virgin queen, married to her kingdom, under the divine protection of heaven
. “All my husbands, my good people,”
were the words used on more than one occasion. But the queen was not unmindful of the duty to ensure that the kingdom survive. The fear of civil war was great. So it came to be that he urged me to correspond with James, king of Scotland, son of Mary, Queen of Scots, whom he’d executed for treason. In conciliation of that unavoidable act I was to offer that James assume the throne of England upon the queen’s death. In return, James would cease all opposition and threats toward the English crown. The Scotsman harbored deep resentment for what happened to his mother, but the prospect of the throne eased his anger. He was a shallow man, with few principles, easily swayed. So, when the queen died, the succession occurred without one drop of spilled blood
.

I came to admire and respect the imposter. He governed with care and wisdom.
My father likewise held him in high esteem. I often wonder if the true Elizabeth would have faired better or worse. What England received was a monarch who ruled forty-five years, providing much needed stability. The imposter was blessed with a countenance unlike his Tudor ancestors, one that provided him long life and reasonable health. In the only other time we spoke of his substitution he told me of his mother and father
.

“Our dear mother died before we became queen. We regret she never lived to know. We never saw each other again, once Thomas Parry returned us to Overcourt and we became the princess.”

“But twelve years passed before you rose to the throne.”

“That it did. My mother lived for eleven of those. Lady Ashley and Parry kept me informed as to her life and health. I was told that she was pleased with all that happened. She loved my father dearly, but hated my grandfather, King Henry. On the day Parry took me to Overcourt she told me that it was right and just that this be happening. I would finally become a Tudor, in every way. Her wish was that I would one day become queen. That thought frightened me. But I have since become accustomed to my duty and comfortable with my charge.”

I noticed that when he spoke, for the first time, the label for himself became not “us” or “we” but “me” and “I.” Here was a man, a son, who’d never asked for what befell him but who likewise had not failed in his duty
.

“You are the ruler of this nation. Your word is our command,” I told him
.

“Except for one fact, dear Robert. One fact that might one day become overriding.”

I knew of what he spoke since I too had considered that since he was not the princess Elizabeth, he was not the rightful and lawful ruler of England. Every act done in his name would be void
ab initio,
from the beginning, as more of the fraud
.

As if he never existed
.

G
ARY USED THE CROWD
,
MAKING HIS WAY TOWARD THE EXIT
gate, still a hundred feet away from Antrim. Though clearly aware of the woman and man behind him, Antrim had not, as yet, noticed the two men at the gate. If he did, why keep heading straight toward them?

While Antrim had been inside the Jewel House, Gary had roamed the walks, admiring the White Tower rising to his right. He’d listened to the colorfully dressed Beefeaters as they entertained groups gathered around one spot after another. Everything here seemed attached not to the present, but the past. History was not a subject he enjoyed in school, but here it was all around him. What a difference from words on a page, or images on a video screen. Surrounding him was one of the oldest fortresses in England, where men had died defending the walls, and something was happening.

Right now.

Right here.

He focused again on Antrim, who continued to hustle toward the exit. The two men still stood at the gate, and Gary watched as one of them reached beneath his jacket. He caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster, similar to one his dad owned, and knew what was
there. No weapon was displayed, but the hand stayed beneath the jacket, tucked away, out of view.

Ready.

Antrim kept coming.

Gary was now fifty feet away, still among the crowds.

No one had noticed him.

Antrim stopped, his gaze now focused ahead at the two men.

Surprise and concern filled his face.

The woman and the other man were closing from behind.

Time to act.

A
NTRIM SAW THERE WAS NOWHERE TO GO
. T
HE ONLY EXIT
from the Tower grounds was blocked by two men. Any retreat would take him straight to Denise. He’d made a deal with the devil and now the Daedalus Society had decided he, too, was a liability. True, he had several million of their dollars in the bank, but none of that would do him any good dead. He was mad at himself for all of the mistakes he’d apparently made. This operation, which he’d hoped might be his salvation, had turned into a nightmare.

Even worse, it apparently had been one from the start.

The idea had been to find something that could be used to coax the British government into stopping the Scots from releasing a convicted terrorist. An internal CIA assessment on the potential for Operation King’s Deception had shown that, if successful, the information might be sufficient. The British prided themselves on an adherence to law. Common law was born here, then exported around the world. Their loyalty to legality had been used more than once to squelch a king, expand Parliament, or subdue a colony. King’s Deception had been designed to turn that loyalty against them. Had all gone to plan, Downing Street would have had no choice but to intervene with the Scots. All Washington wanted was a murderer kept in jail. In return, no one would ever know what happened 400 years ago.

But the Daedalus Society had interfered with all of that.

He wished he knew more about them, but there’d been no time to investigate, and any effort to do so would have drawn Langley’s attention.

His only thought now was how to get the hell out of here in one piece. Would they shoot him here? With all of these people around? Who knew. These people were fanatics, and fanatics were unpredictable.

The idea had been to kill Cotton Malone.

But things had changed.

Now he was the one in the crosshairs.

G
ARY CREPT AHEAD
,
USING A GROUP OF
J
APANESE TOURISTS AS
cover. Twenty feet separated Antrim from the two men at the gate, the woman and the other man having stopped about thirty feet behind where Antrim stood, people moving back and forth between them.

His birth father needed him and he wasn’t going to turn away.