The Plantagenet Vendetta (36 page)

The prince breathed deeply.

Suddenly he started laughing.

“Enjoy your retirement, old man.”

Outside the house, Thomas got into the Bentley.

“Everything all right?” Stephen asked.

Thomas turned slowly. “Peachy.”

“Caroline called. She tracked the car to the village of Wootton-on-the-Moor. I was right, by the way. That is where the girl disappeared last year.”

“Also the home of some distant cousins.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Thomas bit his lip so hard it nearly started to bleed.

“Everything all right?”

“It’s a long story.”

Thomas dropped Stephen off at the rear of the palace.

“Remember what I said.”

“Tom, I still don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to. Jim said the tombs will prove it. The Princes in the Tower are b-buried at Westminster Abbey; Elizabeth of York is in the Lady chapel. Also, use any influence you have to s-see that a s-similar excavation is carried out on the tomb of John Clement in St Rumbold’s Cathedral in Belgium.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going north to find Caroline.”

The King was still awake at 1am. He was reading in his study when he received his unexpected visitor.

Stephen entered without waiting for an invite. “Father, I need a favour.”

The King didn’t bat an eyelid. “Very well.”

“I need your permission to exhume two royal tombs.”

“Whose?”

“The urn containing the Princes in the Tower and Elizabeth of York.”

“The Princes…”

“There’s very little time to explain.

“And I need it before dawn.”

54

Wootton-on-the-Moor, 5am

As always it began with the dawn. The first hint of orange had emerged in the sky behind the castle hill, its bright light distorted by distant clouds. Soon the sun would rise above the hill, illuminating firstly the ancient woodland and then the house, through the large Gothic windows that lined the side of the building. In the past the light had been necessary; without it, the telling of time was impossible.

These days it served only as a reminder.

The cellar was the oldest part of the estate. In its heyday it had belonged to the castle itself. Back then it was known as the court or the meeting room. It was the heart of the feudal system – the place where justice would be meted out or new laws passed. Wooden furniture was arranged along the walls, its appearance in keeping with the room’s former purpose. There was a statue at the head of the room of an elegant king adorned with regal sword and crown.

Henry II. The first Plantagenet king.

The floor was also wooden, its boards prone to prolonged creaking. The main feature was an elaborate table decorated with the Plantagenet crest: three gold lions on a maroon background. The symbol represented England at a different time, back when the empire extended far beyond the channel.

How things had changed.

The table itself was worthy of mention. Instead of the usual circle or rectangle, it was designed in the shape of a shield. Thirty chairs surrounded it, all of which were taken.

Twelve sat along either side. While every man present was dressed in robes, a fitting and ancient regalia, for those on the left side the black cloaks and white habits were also their usual dress. It had been that way since the 1200s, back when the priory was in its heyday.

All sat quietly.

At the bottom of the table, three men sat spaced apart. Lovell and Ratcliffe sat either side of Sir William Catesby, who sat at the point where the tip was at its most outstretched.

Opposite him, Lord Jeffries occupied the most elaborate seat. To his left sat his namesake and grandson. On the other side, the seat was empty – a reminder of the loss of his son. To the wider world, the man was an enigma. To the people of Wootton, his reputation was less esteemed. Most of them viewed him as a crank, if not simply:

A bastard.

In this room, however, his importance rose to unrivalled heights. Within the assembled group, he was addressed only as ‘Your Highness’ or ‘Your Grace’. It was the term used before Majesty, back in the old days. To his followers his official title was:

Edward XIII, King of England, Duke of York, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Aquitaine, Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou, Count of Poitou.

Despite his appearance, regal but without the highly crafted trimmings of the monarchs of old, he was now little more than a figurehead. The true authority belonged to the three sitting opposite. Like their predecessors, they not only ran this show, but every show. Their ancestors had achieved immortality as the governors of England:

The Cat, the Rat, and Lovell our Dog.

Who ruled all England under a Hog.

“Martin Tolson, Democrat candidate for the constituency of Keighley, was yesterday successful in the bi-election. May we offer our congratulations to both he and his party leader.”

There was no applause, but Catesby’s words were taken seriously. The leader of the Democrat Party, Rowland Stanley, the gopher-faced man with smart silver hair, nodded but remained silent.

“Next week we have another bi-election, this time in East Sussex. I understand the candidate to be put forward is Mr Thompson.”

“I thought he was dead,” Ratcliffe said.

“This is Thompson junior,” Stanley replied. “Gareth is his son.”

“Is he able?” the Rat asked.

“I respect him.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

The Dog sat forward. “I think what my colleague is trying to say, dear Rowland, is that the constituency in question has always been one loyal to the Tories. Is the son of a former Blackshirt really a man who will endear himself to the voters?”

Stanley took his time. “He is the best we have at the present time.”

“I see.”

“What are his chances?” the Cat asked.

“He is unlikely to beat the Tory candidate, but the late Mr Bates was rather popular – a former Cabinet minister, we mustn’t forget,” Lovell replied.

“There is no doubt that he has big shoes to fill,” Stanley agreed. “But these days, who doesn’t?”

The Cat stroked his beard. “Personal congratulations, I believe, are also in order for Mr Dawson. For those of you who do not know, Mr Dawson’s construction company has recently won the contract for development of the South Bank. I’m sure, gentlemen, you will join me in wishing him well in his bid to add his vision to the great city.”

Several people nodded, including Dawson, who sat quietly along the side. He had dark hair and wore a smart suit beneath his robes.

As did the others on that side.

“But now, gentlemen, to more pressing issues. As many of you may now be aware, a situation in London is brewing, and a minor crisis must be averted. I assume we need not waste time on the details.”

Prolonged silence descended on the room. Those sitting along the sides in particular became deathly still, either unwilling to put themselves on the spot or risk appearing stupid.

“Should that be the case, gentlemen, I’m afraid you must excuse me,” Edward said. “I’ve never been much of a fan of those twenty-four-hour news channels. There would really be little point in me staying without knowing what on earth you’re talking about.”

At the other end of the table, the Cat retained a neutral persona.

It would be impossible to continue the meeting without the Prince of Wales.

“Perhaps it would be wise, my friend, not to gloss over the details,” the Hog said. “Historically it has been something of a curse of my family: how precision has been lost through lack of clarity.”

“Very well,” the Cat agreed. “Gentlemen, as many of you may by now be aware, yesterday an explosion took place in the Borough of Greenwich; most of the news channels have been reporting the issue as a gas leak. Also, thanks to a certain news article, they are presently covering the story of a possible health scare for the Duke of York. The stories are compelling, but largely inaccurate.”

“Where is the duke?” the Rat asked.

“The King Edward,” the Cat replied.

“Actually, the old boy has already discharged himself,” the Dog said.

Catesby and Ratcliffe were stunned.

“You know this?” the Rat asked.

“How?” the Cat asked.

“I have my sources.”

Neither man replied. The answer was sufficient.

“What I can’t understand is how the old bastard survived,” Stanley said.

“The murder of the duke was never our intention,” the Cat replied sternly. “But even if it were, the substance takes time. My guess would be that he had an allergic reaction. Ironically, it might have done him good.”

“The palace has already been put on red alert following the escape of Morris,” the fair-haired man sitting on the right side said. “Understandably neither the palace nor the Ministry of Defence have released the news to the public. The murders of my colleagues are now common knowledge to them, as is that of the former monarch.”

All present watched the politician.

“I was unaware that the palace knew,” Edward said.

“Most of them accept it as likely,” the new Secretary of State for Justice, Dominic West, replied. “Though the King himself is largely in denial.”

“How has the Home Secretary responded?” the Dog asked.

West laughed. “Well, he’s using the usual buzzwords.”

Soft laughter resonated throughout the room, including from some of the friars.

“That’s not an answer,” the Cat said coldly.

“He knows the truth about my predecessor and his alleged involvement with terrorists.” West used his fingers to quote. “For now it is known only to a select few.”

Catesby looked at the friars. “What of Morris?”

“The Home Secretary had been attempting to question Brother Morris himself,” West said.

Sitting among his fellow brothers, the escapee sat in silence.

“How about the royals themselves?” the Dog asked.

At the opposite end of the table, the Hog was unimpressed with Lovell’s choice of words.

“The King, of course, has put his best man on the case.”

“Off the record, of course?” the Cat asked.

“Of course,” West replied. “They’d never let a thing like this reach the public domain.”

“Who, who is this man?” the Hog asked.

“Prince Thomas, son of Clarence…I know very little about him,” West admitted.

“Francis?”

Lovell looked at the Hog. “Prince Thomas, yes, the so-called invisible royal.”

“I’m sorry, the invisible royal?” Stanley interjected.

“Yes, the so-called go-to chap: the person the King will turn to in a time of crisis. Usually a more minor royal, someone unlikely to take the throne, probably a younger son of the younger brother. Every monarch since the Tudors has had one.”

“And what of this Thomas?” the Hog asked.

“Only son of the Duke of Clarence, also his sole heir. A history graduate of Keble College, Oxford; finished Sandhurst with more credibility than usual for a Winchester…unofficially, now a member of the Secret Service.”

“A capable man?”

“Without question. I actually had the pleasure of meeting him myself once,” the Dog replied. “Very nice chap, a strapping build. However, he has a tendency to suffer the same affliction as many of his ancestors.”

“What?” the Cat asked. “Don’t tell me he stammers?”

“More stutter than stammer; usually improves when he’s relaxed or in full flow. However, unlike his ancestor, his was not from birth. From what I could gather, the poor chap was most unfortunate in witnessing some of the things he did in Afghanistan. Rumour also has it that it was he who stumbled across the corpse of his late grandmother.”

No one said a word. They were familiar with the story of the queen’s death.

“Nevertheless, most brutal in his own fashion. And almost certainly,” Lovell turned to face Lord Ratcliffe, “the man responsible for the death of your nephew.”

The Rat was clearly livid.

“What of him now?” the Hog asked.

“I saw him yesterday at the palace with the Duke of Cornwall,” West replied. He hesitated before continuing. “He really is the most vulgar of fellows.”

“He is a man unworthy to be referred to as Prince of England,” Morris said, bowing his head toward the Hog.

Jeffries acknowledged the friar with a smile. “Why was he there?” he asked West.

“I’m afraid I was not party to their conversation.”

On this occasion the Hog seemed to accept the answer.

“Has Stephen senior given any indication of a willingness to comply yet?” the younger Jeffries asked his grandfather.

The Hog changed the subject. “I understand we have a more local problem?”

The Cat turned to his left. “Francis?”

Lovell looked uncomfortable. He had seen the footage, and the footage did not make for pleasant viewing.

“She seemed like such a nice girl.”

“According to you, they’re always nice,” the Cat said.

The Dog did not have a response.

“I saw her myself two nights ago,” the Hog said. “She was making her way out of the sacristy with one of the local teenagers.”

“What’s wrong with that?” his grandson asked.

“It was after eleven at night.”

Edward raised an eyebrow. “I saw them myself last night.”

“What time was this?” Lord Ratcliffe asked.

“Not sure. About midnight.”

To Lovell, the timing made sense.

“Have you spoken to the priest?” the Hog asked.

“I have spoken to Father Martin,” the Dog replied.

“And?”

Sitting among the friars, the priest again allowed Lovell to respond. “It is as I suspected.”

The Hog was silently seething.

“You have seen the footage?” Ratcliffe asked.

“I have,” the Dog replied.

“We have no room for error here. The village is not capable of withstanding another scandal.”

“That may be so,” added the Cat, “but if things remain unchecked, we could be facing an even bigger one.”

“How did they get in?” Stanley asked.

“The priory ruins, or at least so it would seem,” the Dog replied.

“Father?” Catesby asked the priest.

“There was definitely a light within the catacombs,” Father Martin replied.

“It was definitely not natural?”

“I have seen the surveillance footage myself,” Lovell beat the priest to a reply. “There is no room for equivocation.”

The Hog adjusted his glasses. His facial expression had strengthened, as had his resolve.