The Plantagenet Vendetta (35 page)

Standing in the shadow of the pathway that led from Ravensfield to the church, the longhaired figure remained unnoticed. She watched as the young researcher and the even younger hairdresser went their separate ways, one heading toward the high street, the other inside the inn.

She grabbed hold of the gate to support herself. Breathing was difficult; it had been ever since that fateful day a year ago.

It felt similar – perhaps even worse than the last time.

History was repeating itself.

Jen entered the Hog through the main door. The lights were still on, but the locals had left. She heard the sound of chairs being moved, accompanied by glasses clinking together. Tara was busying herself with the usual end-of-day tasks. She smiled at Jen as she passed before heading off into the kitchen with her hands full.

Jen wandered through the deserted bar area, the dining area, and into the main hallway where Mitchell was hoovering. He nodded at her as she passed, but neither said anything.

Jen entered the bedroom and went straight to her laptop. She reasoned that if there was any truth in the things she had seen, they would have left a trail.

Even if just a vague one.

If Debra Harrison had been murdered – or at least abducted – for finding out more than she needed to know, chances were she wasn’t the first to have suffered such a fate.

Anthea crossed the high street, heading back home. There was a car parked opposite the butcher’s, a stunning Rolls Royce with a unique number plate.

Even on the other side of the village, she had never seen anything quite so elaborate.

She continued up the passageway, less than a hundred metres from her house. There was movement nearby. A figure emerged, walking toward her.

The wall light revealed the stranger’s face.

“My God, it’s you.”

52

Thomas moved slowly away from the paintings and took a seat on the settee. It was old and antique, and felt more like a park bench than a couch.

“Don’t feel so bad, Tom,” the earl said. “Successful comprehending of the pieces of our timeline can never be achieved in one segment – no matter how talented the historian.”

Gardiner sat down alongside him.

“Have you any idea how long it took me to put together the pieces of this incredible jigsaw? An entire lifetime, such was the challenge and so few the clues. And many that were clues were left by people whose connection to the Crown was so remote it barely seemed relevant.”

“Yet when you found it, you said nothing.”

“On the contrary. No sooner had your grandmother died than I took the search to the next level. Your father was the first person I told. Your uncle, the King, listened with a vague interest before finally concluding it was all obsolete – ancient history, he called it.” He shook his head. “When I brought the subject before your grandfather,” he spoke of the late King, “he, too, listened with the same polite interest before concluding that I had got too old. He told me to take a holiday – a sabbatical, he called it – a lengthy spell away to recharge the old batteries. A month later, still they refused to take my claim seriously. The reward for fifty years of dedication: a lifetime banishment from the palace, compensated by a fine pension and an extra title to shut the hell up.”

Thomas was rattled. “You feel you were short-changed?”

“I never asked for any such titles, earldoms, OBEs…it might well interest you to know that during the Cold War, I was walking home one evening when a rather striking car crossed my path, and travelling within were two rather large Russian fellows and a long-haired brunette who would have made Clark Gable’s heart beat fast. She played her role well, too, I can assure you.”

Gardiner rose to his feet and began to pace.

“By the time this rather intimidating episode was over, I had been offered over £1 million to spy on my country and my king by the KGB,” he said, his eyes now on the prince. “Over the next seven years the offer would be extended several times. Did I take it? I am sure that I did not…”

Thomas exhaled forcibly. “Well, at least no one can accuse you of being motivated by greed.”

Gardiner’s expression had hardened.

“You never told me.”

“Two days ago I tried; yesterday I tried again – you said you were too busy.”

“I was.”

“Oh really, Tom. The Sons of York are among the most ghastly of people ever to have walked God’s earth. I tried to tell you of the path you needed to tread; you didn’t even give me a moment.”

“So you leaked the story to the press.”

“I did the only thing I could in order to get the attention of the people who needed to see it.”

“There’s a word for what you did.”

“Only one?”

“In the past it was called treason.”

Gardiner shook his head. “My boy, you disappoint me. All these years you have claimed to be different. How long have you claimed your wish to right the wrongs of the past, walk the path of righteousness? What was it you once said to me as a boy: he that should dare fight the king of beasts shall never fight inferior?”

Thomas bit his lip. Remembering words was difficult.

“When all is said and done, you’re just like all the others. Be it too proud, too arrogant or simply too stupid, you fail to look beyond the length of your own hooter.”

The prince leapt to his feet. “You forget to whom you speak.”

“I’m speaking to the spoiled brat of the third child of a king who was too proud to admit his own faults. The heir to a once defunct Duchy of Middle England, the son of a minor noblewoman whose only talent in life was divorce–”

“How dare you!”

“And the ninth in line to a throne that, thanks to its inability to listen, could well be due to expire.”

“My mother was a great woman,” Thomas said, struggling to control his rage. He took a deep breath and raised his shoulders. “What happened to the princes?”

It was evident from the earl’s expression he had been looking forward to this.

“The fate of the Princes in the Tower, as they were so dubbed many centuries later, was not recorded by the journalists of the time. Should the chroniclers be believed, it was Buckingham, or perhaps Sir James Tyrell, who performed the deadly deed, always on behalf of the tyrant immortalised by Shakespeare for being a hunchback. It has always been my belief that the majority of the chroniclers were acting with the best of intentions – doing the best they could with the information at their disposal.

“However, there was one who had no such excuse.”

The realisation hit Thomas immediately. “Of course, Sir Thomas More–”

“Was the one person we know for sure who always knew the truth.”

Thomas was almost speechless. “Wh-what are you suggesting? That he lied?”

“Yes, of course he did. Henry VIII was on the throne, and the Princes in the Tower were assumed to be dead. It would have been something of an inconvenience, don’t you think, should the king have realised that he had a pretender to his throne.”

“He didn’t know?”

“Well, his father certainly did and, in the early years, went to great lengths to eradicate them. Since the reign of Edward IV, the princes were the subject of countless assassination attempts by the red rose of Lancaster. With the princes alive, Henry Tudor could never rule. There was a reason he went to such extremes to eradicate every copy of Titulus Regius. If you should read what I have read,” he spoke of the Ravensfield Chronicle, “it was clear why. The princes were known to be alive.”

He grinned at Thomas.

“Yet, there was another problem. With the princes dubbed illegitimate, marrying Elizabeth of York would prove no gain. Why marry a bastard? It wouldn’t make any sense.”

He laughed to himself.

“The relegitimization of the offspring of Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville gave Henry Tudor a boost, but only if people believed the princes were dead. When Henry married Elizabeth, he sought only alliance with the House of York. After all, what kind of husband would seek to murder the brothers of his queen?”

“They were still alive?”

“Edward V was a sickly child, who, according to the Ravensfield Chronicle, finally succumbed to typhoid in November 1483. After falling ill while preparations were being made for his coronation, it was the best projection of the royal physicians that the king would not last the year. Fears soon began to mount that his brother had also caught the disease. With that, the entire future of the House of York depended on its ability to survive.”

“Why have them declared illegitimate?”
Thomas asked.

“Because only a strong figure could resist the threat posed by the House of Lancaster, and only one such man existed – Richard, Duke of Gloucester. The fledgling rule of the House of York was far too feeble to withstand the threat of insurrection, so it was decided that the Crown must pass to Richard. The Stillington conspiracy, as it was then dubbed, was the brainchild of three prominent statesmen – William Catesby, Richard Ratcliffe, and Francis Lovell. Catesby, a successful lawyer, was almost certainly the composer of Titulus Regius. But when Richard died without a surviving heir, there was only one person left to replace him. The younger brother of the former king.”

“What happened to him?”

“The prince was taken from the Tower on 3 September 1483, along with his dying brother and cousin – the Earl of Warwick, son of George, Duke of Clarence. At first, we believe they sought refuge with a distant relative, one of the Woodvilles, before making their new home in North Yorkshire – in the household of one of Richard III’s bastards. As the rightful king regained his strength, the family began to make moves to bring the House of York back to prominence. After the failure of the trial run by the pretenders Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck – themselves both sons of Richard III – it was decided that the rightful heir would never have the military strength to retake the throne during his own lifetime. Instead, he returned to the limelight as Edward Jeffries, taking the Christian name of his deceased brother and the surname of the founder of his house, Geoffrey Plantagenet. Only this man would not be a king, but a surgeon.”

“Surgeon?”

“In time the man would marry, and no fewer than six heirs were born. The eldest was John, the man in the painting. In time he would become president of the Royal College of Physicians. A subtle alternative to being king, but a fine way to infiltrate the circles of the time.”

“Then More knew?”

“Of course. If you want my opinion, much of what happened next was his idea. As a Plantagenet, Jeffries had the luxury of a fine education. That in turn was passed on to More, who brought John Jeffries, known in wider circles as John Clement, into his house under the guise of a tutor. A strong marriage was needed for the prince and who better than a daughter of the Chancellor of England. And at what better time?”

Thomas was now completely lost. “What do you mean, better time?”

“In the eyes of More, the antics of Henry VIII could not continue. The feud with the papacy was large. More knew it was only a matter of time before disaster struck. This led to his own plot against the king – an action that would cost him his life.”

Thomas was dumbstruck. “More was a traitor?”

“The definition of traitor is dependent on what side one happens to be on at the time. The actions of the king were about to tarnish the future of the country, and also threatened to change the landscape of Europe. More’s mission was slightly different to Jeffries’, but the effects of re-establishing the House of York would prove the only way forward.”

“Which was?”

“To place a Catholic back on the throne of England.”

The DG of MI5 had never been so confused. Despite every attempt at carrying out research, the gun just failed to come up on any of the investigations.

It had simply not been charted.

The telephone on his desk began to ring. “Bridges.”

“The Home Secretary is on the line, sir.”

“Put him through.”

The next voice he heard was Heston’s.

“Yes, Minister.”

“I’m afraid we’ve had something of a development. The bastard from Clapham has escaped.”

53

Thomas exhaled violently. He sat forward with his hands clenching his knees and his eyes fixed firmly on Gardiner.

“The Wars of the Roses were among the bloodiest times in the entire history of our beloved nation. Seldom in the centuries since, or the centuries past, has more quarter been given or asked for the cause of the ‘rightful’ king.”

Thomas remained silent for several seconds. “Surely there have been worse wars?”

“Actually no. Over twenty thousand lost their lives that day at Towton, a number far greater than in any other battle on English soil.” The earl eyed him keenly. “It is not by the death count alone that one defines a battle. Many of the Lancastrians, including the heir to the throne, lost their lives at Tewkesbury when Edward IV regained the throne. The Lancastrians that were captured were swiftly executed.” He gestured with his hands to his throat. “In a way, you might say, it was the battle that returned stability to England.”

He walked away from the prince to the other side of the room. There was a fine oil painting on the wall, portraying a battle scene.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Gardiner said, admiring the picture. “Though right you may be when comparing the amount of bloodshed at Tewkesbury to that of Crécy or Marston Moor, there is no doubt that the effects of that day in May 1471 would go a long way toward shaping England’s history for years to come. When Henry Tudor, victorious at Bosworth in 1485, claimed the throne for what remained of the Lancastrians, he did what many thought unthinkable: a man of relatively obscure beginnings became king through nothing but tenacity and self-belief. Who would’ve thought it then, that the most pragmatic king England had seen since the conquest would be succeeded by the oaf who married six times.”

“I see your love for the Tudors has not diminished.”

The man laughed. “For all the good that happened during that time, for every positive there was an aftershock that threatened to tear Europe to the core. The Dissolution of the religious houses that followed remains to this day the most heartless and unethical event ever carried out by an English government. Today, of course, it would be illegal, right of ownership, human rights, we’ve heard it all before.” He shook his head. “But for every corrupt abbot or prior there were thirty good men who were treated like the scum of the earth. It was in the reign of his son, most historians will tell you, that the true Reformation began, but it was during Henry VIII’s time the drumbeat was set.

“If the rule of the Plantagenets taught us one thing, it was the importance of the assistance of the Pope. When Henry VIII burned that bridge, those who were once our allies became our enemies. And the ruler of England forever susceptible.”

Thomas shook his head. “You have a C-Catholic sympathy now?”

Gardiner looked back coldly. “It is not I who does anything, I am only telling you what happened. When Edward VI came to the throne, it was known that the best way forward for the government of England was a monarch who could unite. The boy king, sickly though he was, would have survived a lot longer had it not been for the circumstances that put him there. The web of the papacy was far reaching; that of the House of York, cunning.”

That got his attention. “He was murdered?”

“Killed by the very people he thought were his friends.”

“His wife?”

“His physician.”

Thomas placed his hands to his head. “Death by poison.”

The historian nodded. “Perhaps manipulation would be the correct word in this instance. Baked in a pie.”

Thomas shook his head, the irony painful. He looked to his left and picked up a goblet of wine from the nearby table.

Then he went off the idea.

“The young king knew that successful continuation of the Reformation in England required the right successor. Naïvely, he chose Lady Jane Grey, the poor girl who did not stand a chance. For the Sons of York, Edward’s succession by a Catholic queen was at least a lesser of two evils. When Mary failed to conceive, in theory all that was needed then was a York marriage to Philip II’s daughter and a York would return to the throne.”

“But who? You d-don’t even know if the next child would be a b-boy or girl.”

“Behind the walls of the Vatican, I have no doubt that the Pope and his ally from York had that anxious wait many a time over. Fortunately for John Clement, he was blessed with both sons and daughters. The eldest was Edward, named after his great-grandfather. He’s the boy in the painting.”

Thomas turned to see the painting attributed to Holbein. All he could see was a person reading.

“The papacy knew?”

“Of course they knew; not only that, but they approved. Should the Tudor kings have behaved like good little boys and continued to pay homage to the Bishop of Rome, then there was no reason to believe that the eventual outcome of the Wars of the Roses would have been anything more than a footnote in the context of the Vatican’s history. As soon as it became clear that Elizabeth was going to be heading the same way as her brother and father – hardly surprising given she was the daughter of Anne Boleyn – the papacy once again had a problem. The Act of Uniformity of 1559 made the position of the Roman Church untenable. In 1570 she was excommunicated.”

Gardiner laughed loudly.

“Does it not strike one as strange that within a year of the queen’s excommunication she was the victim of a plot, by an Italian?”

“Ridolfi.”

Gardiner nodded. “During her long reign, the queen was the victim of no less than sixteen plots, perhaps more – who knows how many were swept under the carpet or failed to come to fruition. After the failure of the Somerville and Parry plots, many believed the opportunity for Yorkist revival had passed. Had the Somerville Plot been successful, carried out by the descendents of the cousins of the Princes in the Tower, the return of the Sons of York would have been set almost totally in stone. When the failure of Anthony Babington and his attempts to secure the throne for Mary Queen of Scots led to the pretender’s death, there was little anyone could do but wait for a Spanish triumph or for the old girl to die.”

“But Elizabeth was s-succeeded by James.”

“The coming of the man from Scotland could have been exactly what all sides needed – a compromise. When that failed, it took only one hungry young wannabe tyrant to attempt to rewrite history. It signalled a dangerous new era for the Sons of York. The man’s name, Robert Catesby.”

“The Gunpowder Plot.”

“A sixth generation descendent of the Chancellor of Richard III, known also to his contemporaries as the Cat.”

The words were spoken by Gardiner in the manner of a teacher addressing a primary school student, the older man clearly amused by the prince’s ignorance.

“Had it have been successful, of course, the almighty blow would have seen the end of the entire constitution. It was not only a building and a monarch that would have needed replacing, but the government.”

“Swept away like the waters of the Red Sea.”

“Interesting analogy – not incorrect. Even the Puritans were not averse to suggestion it was something of a judgement.”

Thomas was beginning to see the big picture. “What happened next? And this time don’t beat about the bush.”

On this occasion Gardiner didn’t dally. “Evidence suggests that the plots continued, although if they did, they met little in the way of success. During the reign of Charles I, the two actually joined forces against a much greater foe. It was Cromwell, not the Lancastrian kings of old, who oversaw the ruin of the Jeffries’ estates.”

“Then what?”

“The next descendent emerged, this time as part of the Monmouth Rebellion, yet he, too, met his maker following the fall of James II.”

“I’ve heard this bit before.”

“Have you indeed?” Gardiner cleared his throat. “Following that time, it is my honest opinion that the direct line came to an end. As a result, attempts against the Royal Family itself have, at least up to now, been largely non-existent. It could even be argued that in the 18th and 19th centuries the history of the Sons of York can be more easily explained by the development of the Whig movement. Even now, their influence in politics is greater than you can possibly know.”

He’d heard this before as well. “You mean they’re republicans?”

“Actually, no; the importance that the Sons place on their Norman ancestry is really rather admirable in many ways. They are quintessential English – that’s a fact – but you are more likely to find a trade unionist in their midst than a Blackshirt. Nevertheless, word of caution.”

Thomas left his seat and examined the paintings for a second time. He shook his head.

“How? How do you know this?”

“Over the years, the curiosity of the curious has led to many a fine discovery.”

He showed Thomas the Ravensfield Chronicle again.

“Even to this day it is in their home county where their influence runs deepest.”

Thomas breathed furiously. “How did you find this?”

“I pilfered it from the Bodleian.”

He looked at it. “The Ravensfield Chronicle,” he said. The handwriting was dark and murky. “Where?”

“The original Ravensfield Blackfriars Priory was located somewhere in the North York Moors. According to the end of this, something the author called the second continuation, Henry Tudor ruined the priory in 1490 due to its importance to the House of York. After that, it goes into less detail.”

“Where was it?”

“In my opinion, the place referred to as Ravensfield is now a village called Wootton-on-the-Moor. According to this, the entire village was ransacked and lost.”

He looked at Gardiner. Suddenly things were making sense.

“One thing still p-puzzles me. If all this is correct, why did Elizabeth of York marry Henry Tudor?”

The historian laughed. “A most excellent point.”

He showed him another oil painting, this time on the far left wall.

It was a copy of a very famous painting. The subject: Elizabeth of York, artist unknown.

There was a second painting alongside it, another woman, blonde hair, elegant and beautiful, perhaps late teens.

“Notice anything strange?”

Thomas shrugged. “Who are they?”

“Elizabeth of York.”

“It’s the same woman?”

“Yes and no.”

“Let me guess. Tudor married an imposter.”

Gardiner clapped his hands together and smiled. “Another fine work credited to the great Hans Holbein.”

He turned to face the prince.

“Elizabeth Woodville was cunning. And as you say, why enter an alliance with the Tudors if the princes, or at least one, were still alive?

“Thus we come to the final element of the puzzle. The deceit of the Woodvilles into making Margaret Beaufort think her son, Henry Tudor, had married a Plantagenet. In fact, he had married a lesser Woodville.”

“He didn’t know?”

“I believe he probably did. That is why Henry Tudor’s wish to destroy every copy of Titulus Regius was so pivotal. Being barred by Attainder, his only option was to marry the princess. Thus, the Tudor’s own deceit. Their claim to the throne was void.”

Thomas exhaled deeply. “And Elizabeth?”

“According to the Ravensfield Chronicle, she disappeared when leaving sanctuary in 1483 on the advice of her uncle Richard. Two years later she was joined by her cousin and soon-to-be husband.”

“Who?”

“The third prince in the Tower. The boy history always forgets.”

Thomas bit his lip. “Clarence’s son.”

The earl nodded. “It is through him and Elizabeth that your noble cousins, Jeffries, claim their descent.”

Thomas returned his attention to the chronicle. “Can we really v-vouch for its accuracy?”

“There is only one way.”

“Go on.”

“Exhume the skeletons at Westminster Abbey and carry out the tests that your grandfather was too afraid to order himself. If you’re smart, you will also find a way of excavating the tomb of John Clement, who is buried in the Cathedral of St Rumbold’s in Belgium. Only then will you know the truth.”

For several seconds Thomas failed to reply. “And of the present?”

“By now I’d have thought that must be obvious.”

“Jeffries.”

“Noble cousins.”

Thomas’s anger was finally beginning to boil over. “You bastard. You b-bastard. All this time, you–”

The old man remained resolute. “It does not do to dwell too much on the past, Tom.”

“Strange words f-for a historian.”

“Who better qualified to say them?”

Thomas bit his lip and pointed. “Treason lives. As do traitors.”

He left the room, heading in the direction of the hallway.

From the room he had left, he heard the sound of a lone gunshot.

He stopped in his tracks. He was suddenly numb, his body static. As he began to breathe, a cold chill ran down his spine.

Slowly he returned to the room.

The earl was standing, carrying a revolver. “Be careful what you wish for.”