The Plantagenet Vendetta (18 page)

25

The limousine pulled up at the pre-designated location at just before 9pm. Despite the recent downpour, it was still light. A glorious sunset burned across the western sky, descending into the distant hills and painting the skyline in vivid orange and red.

The image was a photographer’s dream, but not just because of the sunset. The landscape was pure green, lined with fields and dense forests that seemingly continued forever. Even the occasional villages or towns barely made a mark on the landscape – and even those that did were for the most part as old as the trees. The area had a sense of timelessness, the type of place where every house could tell a story.

But also a place where most chose not to tell.

The landscape, despite the endless beauty, was not necessarily the area’s greatest feature. Merely metres from the secluded car park, magnificent walls, reminiscent of the mighty Camelot, rose impressively into the sky. The white stone structure was completely intact, though nothing more than a shell. It was a place where history merged with the present day, and where the echoes of the past continued to be heard like a song being played on a continuous loop.

And while it continued to play, peace would remain impossible.

The journey had taken a fraction under two hours – one hour fifty-seven minutes according to the clock on the dashboard. Watching through the rear left window, the son of the Duke of Clarence had been able to follow the route with relative accuracy. Motorways and A roads dominated the itinerary, making the general direction easy to follow. The M180 gave way to the M18, then to the M62 and from there the A1. As time went by, the large blue signposts, listing the distance to nearby destinations, turned into blurs. He knew the roads well – he’d been travelling them all his life.

On leaving the A6055, he paid closer attention. The destination was somewhere in Yorkshire – had it not have been, the driver would not have left the A1. As the driver negotiated a series of roundabouts, Thomas watched, concentrating hard. In hindsight, the precaution proved unnecessary. There was no doubt regarding his current location.

The poetic irony was not lost on him.

Middleham Castle.

A Yorkist stronghold.

Once home to a King of England.

Patterson parked the car southwest of the castle. It was not a visitor car park; instead, it was an area where a lorry or large van would pull up to make a delivery. In his experience, it was the only area where anonymity was guaranteed. The castle itself was integrated within the larger community: a small market town of about eight hundred people. The locals usually kept themselves to themselves, but it never did to take chances. A bad move in the wrong place – a passing car, an overeager tourist, or a local walking his dog – could put everything in jeopardy. Fate rested on such mishaps being avoided.

Just as it had five hundred years earlier.

The driver turned to face the impostor, now minus his tinted glasses. As soon as Thomas saw the man’s eyes, he realised his mistake.

The man waved a black revolver in his face.

“Kindly step out of the vehicle, Your Highness.”

The traditional entrance was through a tower located at the northeast point of the structure. Instead, Patterson took them in through a more discreet passage. The walls were lower there, allowing easy access to the heart of the castle.

The interior was enormous – but compact. A large curtain wall surrounded the square keep: a dense, imposing structure that still looked capable of withstanding siege. It was darker here than outside, the sunlight failing to rise above the western wall. It was approaching twilight, and a half moon was now visible.

Thomas guessed there was little more than thirty minutes left of actual daylight.

He led the way, though not by choice. The black revolver, pushed forcefully into the small of his back via Talbot’s grey raincoat, limited his choices. He walked with his hands behind his head, his eyes on the walls. He knew from past visits that the main entrance was the only viable exit – aside from the way they had just entered. Even if he managed to escape, his choices were limited.

Worse still was the silence. Even on grass, noises had a nasty tendency to echo, which unnerved him further as his reality continued to dawn on him. Somewhere within these ruins, someone – or some people – was lurking: someone with the potential to do him much harm. Whoever it was, they clearly knew that Talbot was dead.

Worse still, they probably thought he did it.

They continued along the outer wall of the keep. Several birds, possibly rooks, perched on the curtain wall, the sound of their fierce squawks magnified by the acoustics of the layout. In the fading light, it was like the walls were closing in on them. The sense of timelessness seemed to escalate. For the first time that day Thomas thought back to his meeting with the King. The message: apparently a calling card of the Sons of York. In his mind he could hear a majestic voice reciting the words:

“Now is the winter of our discontent; made glorious summer by this sun of York.”

Though the temperature remained warm, the prince found himself plagued by a bitter chill.

He remembered the other message.

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

Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.

Whoever they were, they had surely killed his grandfather.

Perhaps his aunt and grandmother, too.

The keep was similar to many from the Middle Ages: a large square structure, divided in two by an internal wall, and flanked by turrets at every corner. The original stone staircase had been destroyed long ago; in its stead, a modern wooden staircase led to the southeast corner.

His heart missed a beat. Three men, each wearing identical dark jackets, occupied different parts of the staircase, automatic weapons in their grasp. Thomas could not see their faces, but it was obvious they were highly trained – probably military.

He entered the chamber, followed closely by the butler.

“Here Clarence comes, brother, good days, what means this armed guard that waits upon Your Grace?”

The response was delayed. “We have no time for playing games,” barked one of the three. “Where is Talbot?”

This was surely too good to be true. Was it possible that the butler had actually sprung this on them?

“Sir Jack is dead,” the butler replied, the pause between each word lengthy. “I was the one that killed him.”

Thomas was amazed by the admission. He sensed the others shared his surprise.

“You murdered your own master?” another of the three asked, his voice razor sharp.

“Forgive me, sir, I had no choice. You see, Sir Jack was being made subject of a most vicious inquisition from this minor royal,” he said, the disgust evident on the words ‘minor royal’.

Suddenly the man’s admission made perfect sense.

“Minor royal?” the final man asked.

“May I introduce to you, Prince Thomas William Henry Winchester, heir to the Duchy of Clarence.”

For several seconds there was no sign of any acknowledgement.

“Why have you brought him here?”

“Forgive me, sir, I know that you should have been informed in advance,” the butler said. “But His Highness was most insistent on absolute discretion.”

The words shocked the prince. “I beg your pardon.”

He felt the barrel of the gun move against his back.

“Do not move,” one of the voices said from above.

Thomas and Patterson both came to an immediate standstill, the prince returning his hands to behind his head. With circumspect eyes, he searched the chamber for exits. Should the tables turn, he knew he would have to move fast.

All the while the light was fading.

“Why is he here?” The question came from the man at the top of the staircase; to Thomas, the most dominant of the three.

“For the good of the society, sir,” Patterson replied.

Thomas could sense the man’s frustration. Whatever the reason for Talbot’s appointment, he silently wondered whether it was nothing too threatening.

Despite the seclusion, it was a bad place to perform a murder.

The leader of the three moved a few steps down the staircase. “What was your business with Sir Jack?”

Thomas contemplated a response but decided against it.

“Speak.”

The words stuck in his throat.

“You’re wasting your time with this one,” Patterson said, laughing. “We’ll be here till doomsday just waiting for the first word.”

“Silence!” the leader barked.

Suddenly there was movement, seemingly from everywhere. Small silhouettes moved, accompanied by the sound of flapping wings. Several rooks, perhaps half a dozen, were moving through the twilight.

A split second was enough. The prince’s actions were instinctive. He moved his left foot around the other side of the butler and grabbed the man’s arms, twisting to the right. The butler fired as he lost control. The bullet crashed into the upper wall, the sound echoing.

Several gunshots followed. Debris flew up from the wall behind, agonizingly near. Thomas backtracked, struggling to keep his balance. Using the butler as a shield, he placed himself directly out of the line of fire.

“Hold your fire!” the leader of the three demanded.

Thomas, meanwhile, had regained control. With his left hand secure on Patterson, he removed his Glock from the inside of his right thigh.

“Stay p-perfectly still,” he said relatively loudly. He looked in every direction, taking in more of the surroundings.

The tables had turned, but the exits were still limited.

He pointed the gun, first at the staircase, then at the butler’s neck. “No funny business.”

The leader of the three was furious. Standing two steps from the top of the staircase, he gripped the wooden railing with both hands. For the first time the prince noticed that this man was not armed – unlike the other two.

Though the light had faded significantly, Thomas could make out facial features better than before. All three wore woolly hats, black in colour, but not balaclavas. Each man was clean-shaven, white, either late twenties or early thirties. He couldn’t place the accents – they were definitely English, but the region difficult to determine.

If they were local, it wasn’t obvious.

“Who are you?” Thomas asked.

“You’re wasting your time,” the butler said, his face turned toward the prince. For the first time, Thomas noticed the man’s scent – evidently some kind of cologne, and not a nice one.

He thrashed the gun into the man’s back, causing the butler’s spine to arch. Several metres in front of him, the butler’s revolver was lying on the ground.

There was no question of it going anywhere yet.

“Who are you working for?”

“You’re wasting your time,” the butler repeated sarcastically.

Thomas’s patience was waning. “I shan’t t-tell you again.”

“Whoever you are,” this time the words came from one of the others, “let the man go; we can talk about this – be civilised.”

The prince didn’t buy it. He started edging backwards, toward the nearest archway.

“Who are you working for?” he barked.

Who was His Highness?

The silence was disturbed by the sound of a siren, evidently close by. Up above, the three men were starting to panic. An argument had broken out between them in low voices.

Thomas was confused; he recognised the whine as belonging to a police car, but there was no logical reason for them to have been called. He was quite certain no one had seen him and the butler enter – even if they had, it could easily have been mistaken as a legitimate entry by an employee.

Had the other three been seen? No, surely that was impossible. The location had clearly been used before and probably recently. Despite the lack of communication, the three were definitely not amateurs.

Had the gunfire attracted attention?

He had to move fast – or if not fast, effectively. He considered firing a shot into the air; at least that would attract attention. Then he dismissed the idea.

The last thing he needed was for a gunfight to break out.

Unfortunately that was what happened. Shots came from everywhere. Almost immediately he lost his footing, not helped by the weight of the butler in front of him. He decided to let him go, concentrating instead on his own escape.

The bullets were now flying, the sounds echoing off the high walls. Debris moved around him, some near, some further away. The lack of light was now a significant problem.

Everything was a matter of chance.

Thomas sprinted in the opposite direction from the staircase and dived. He was now in the first chamber of the keep, separated from the other by the internal wall.

He rolled to one side and slowly regained his feet, standing with his back to the wall. Recovering his breath, he turned to his right, chancing exposure. A shot came; the bullet smashed into the nearby wall.

The shot had come from nearer than the staircase.

Thomas looked again, shielding everything but his left eye with the wall. The man firing was Patterson, standing some ten metres away, the revolver in his outstretched hand.

Another shot followed, then another – both from Patterson. Glock at the ready, Thomas fired back, the shot narrowly missing the butler. Several more came from the stairs, obviously from one of the three.

Once the mayhem died down, Thomas opened fire. Almost immediately he heard a groan from Patterson. Quiet followed, lasting several seconds. The noise of gunfire echoed again in his ear, accompanied by the familiar ringing noise. For now the siren had disappeared – strange, all things considered.

Was the whole thing a coincidence?

Was the emergency somewhere else?

Two shots in quick succession ended the silence, followed by the sound of bullets against brick. Judging by the noises, the shots were being fired from further away – almost certainly the staircase. Thomas looked out from behind the wall; a silhouette was hunched over, no more than twenty metres away.

He didn’t need perfect vision to know that was Patterson.

The prince fired toward the stairway. He saw the figure drop a firearm before lunging for shelter.

The lack of light was now an advantage. He moved to the other side of the gap and was rewarded with a better view of the staircase. He saw two silhouettes on the stairs, but the third had disappeared. He fired at the nearest and immediately saw movement. The man keeled over, his momentum taking him down the steps. Amidst the sound of the man’s body hitting the wooden stairs, Thomas could hear cries of anguish.

The gunfire resumed, this time from the area where the staircase met the second storey. Thomas fired another shot before ducking for cover. The gunfire was consistent and extremely powerful. The bullets came in quick succession, too quickly for a shotgun, but too slowly for a machine gun. The sound puzzled him: the weapon was certainly automatic, but unlike anything he had come across.

Whatever it was, it was in capable hands.

Far too capable.

Once the gunfire ceased, Thomas returned fire. As far as he could tell the figure had disappeared – almost certainly somewhere on the upper storey.

Chancing exposure, he sprinted to where the butler had last been seen and found the pistol on the floor, a few feet from the man himself. The butler was lying completely still, hunched up slightly, his legs at an angle.

The prince knelt down beside him, checking for signs of life. The man’s eyes were open, but without movement.

No question, he was dead.

A quick rummage of his pockets proved fruitless – apart from the car keys. The old adage of name, rank and serial number was clearly at play. Should the man be discovered, there was no way of identifying him without resorting to further checks.

His other secrets, he had taken to the grave.

Leaving the butler where he was, Thomas sprinted toward the stairs. The wounded man was still on the staircase, lying on his back about a third of the way up. The man’s weapon had fallen ten steps below him. It was a mid-sized object, about half the size of an AK-47, capable of firing a hundred rounds. The weapon was elegant, but baffling. He had seen it only once before, earlier that day behind a wall at Riverton.