The Plantagenet Vendetta (8 page)

Thomas left the study and headed through the grounds of the palace.

“Thomas!”

He heard someone shout his name as he headed for the car. An elderly man was waiting for him by the gate, his entry denied by the palace guards.

Thomas swore under his breath. “For crying out loud.”

“Unhand me,” the old man said to the well-presented guard currently depriving him of entry. “I am the Earl of Somerset.”

Thomas took a deep breath and gestured toward the guard. “It’s okay. He’s allowed in the grounds.”

The old man pushed aside the guard and headed along the pathway toward the prince. He wore a monocle over his right eye, partially obscuring the larger of his deep blue eyes, which was scarred beneath the lid. His white hair had almost completely thinned on top, the rest flanking a round head that had seen over eighty winters.

“The Sons of York are one of the most dangerous societies known to man,” the old man said, struggling to keep pace. “Their influence spans far and wide; you underestimate them at your peril.”

Thomas shook his head, doing his best to ignore him. He knew the man well, and had done his entire life. To the wider world he was James Gardiner. Earl of Somerset and brother of the late queen.

Also former tutor to the prince.

“Not now, Jim,” Thomas said, heading toward the car.

“So you keep saying…Tom, you must listen.”

“You know you’re not supposed to be here. My uncle won’t be pleased if he finds you.”

The old man was getting het up. “You never change, you know. You’re always the same, always incapable of looking beyond the end of your own nose.”

“Later, Jim.”

Gardiner shook his head while he muttered under his breath.

Not for the first time, the boy refused to listen.

10

Jen waited until closing time before leaving her seat at the bar. She said goodnight to Brian and Gavin, tentatively agreeing that she would see them again the following evening.

In truth, she had enjoyed the evening. Without question, the harmless banter of the locals made a refreshing change from interviewing relations of victims and hunting for memorial stones. She knew that their accounts of people and events could be subject to inaccuracy – both of them were pissed come closing time – but she was satisfied their stories were worth following up.

Even if they were wrong, during the final hour she had learned of some useful contacts. Helen Cartwright, supposedly Debra Harrison’s favourite teacher. Francis Lovell, full name Francis Lovell the 23rd, another man of long ancestry and with another bizarre nickname, the Dog. Apparently he was something of a character, until four years ago headmaster of St Joseph’s, now retired.

Thanks to Hancock, she had also obtained an address for Rankin’s mother, Susan Rankin, an emotionally drained widow still coming to terms with the loss of her only son. She knew from her producer that Rankin had declined the opportunity to be interviewed as part of the documentary; hardly surprising given her son was the chief suspect – the only suspect – regarding Debra Harrison’s disappearance. Jen knew that following up that lead would be a risk, but she decided it was worth it.

After all, she reminded herself, her job was to document the facts, not to take sides.

She walked up the stairs and continued along the landing. The hallway was quiet, with no obvious signs of life from inside any of the rooms. According to Tara, there were four guests in total.

For all she knew, she was the only one.

She entered her room and closed the door behind her. The lateness of the hour and the effects of a long day’s work were finally catching up with her.

She was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Outside the Hog, the young brown-haired girl watched as the light came on in one of the upstairs rooms. She’d heard rumours that day of a newcomer in the village, following in the footsteps of a year ago. Though she was still to see the woman herself, the facts didn’t seem out of place. It was just like a year earlier.

History repeats itself.

She waited until the light went out again before making her way down the footpath toward the old part of the village.

11

Less than an hour after leaving the palace, Thomas had reached his destination. Though the King had been unspecific in telling him where the prisoner was being held, he knew from experience there was only one such place.

It was the same place where traitors to the Crown had always been held.

He breathed in deeply, attempting to rid himself of the feeling of claustrophobia as he waited for the lift to reach its destination. As the doors opened, he saw before him a lengthy silver corridor, its appearance uncannily reminiscent of a top-secret nuclear facility.

Two burly men had been placed on the doors, standing rigidly to attention. Like their colleagues above the surface, they were dressed in the typical undress uniform of a Yeoman Warder: dark blue with red trimmings, including the symbol of the Crown and the letters SIIR, denoting the reign of the present monarch, Stephen II. Like all Yeomen Warders, they were NCOs and had previously served over twenty-two years in the British Army.

But unlike their colleagues above ground, both men carried L85A2 automatic weapons.

The standard weaponry of the British Army.

Both Beefeaters turned to face the prince and immediately saluted. Without further word, the Beefeater on the left escorted Thomas to the end of the corridor and inserted an eight-digit pin into the keypad on reaching a metal door.

This was the most exclusive part of the Tower of London: a secure facility known as the Cromwell Tower, named in honour of its creator. Unlike the building above, the facility did not appear on the itinerary of any guided tour. Indeed, its existence was known only to a select few.

He was among the select.

Thomas waited for the door to open, and was immediately greeted by a man of imposing features, measuring six foot three with red hair and a matching goatee. His appearance was impeccable, typical of an officer. Thomas knew the man well, and had done for years.

He was the Constable of the Tower of London, a position of rare privilege. He was Sir Thomas Edmondes, Chief Yeoman Warder.

The man saluted. “Good evening, Captain.”

The prince returned the salute. “Before I joined the army, I would never have believed such a p-place to be p-possible.”

Edmondes led the way along the next corridor, its appearance in keeping with the one before. “The less public exposure a man like Morris receives, the better,” the Constable of the Tower began. “I’ve tried interrogating him myself several times; the man seems to be a complete lunatic.”

The statement matched the rumours. “What of his background?”

“Prior to recent days, practically nothing. He’s former military, almost certainly a professional assassin. It isn’t every day you find someone who’s taken monastic orders who has the ability to administer explosives to a government vehicle and detonate it.”

“Any progress on determining the s-substance?”

“Tests are ongoing.”

“He’s said nothing of his background or training?”

Edmondes shook his head. “No. But madman or not, his expertise is far ranging. And if correctly driven, most profitable.”

“You believe him to be a h-hired assassin?”

“In truth, we don’t know. His answers have been peculiarly ambiguous – quite obviously rehearsed. At this stage, nothing can be taken for granted.”

They reached another metal door, which Edmondes opened using a code. This was the quietest part of the facility. Another smaller corridor followed: its walls painted grey, with the lack of light adding to the gloom. Even from the doorway, Thomas could sense the depression. It was as if something lingered in the air.

The cumulative result of the building’s history.

Edmondes led Thomas to the second door on the left, visually a large sheet of reinforced steel. The door opened electronically as Edmondes placed his palm into the scanner, revealing a small desolate room, partitioned into two by metal railings.

What Thomas saw left him speechless. It was as if the prison cells of the past, like those of the building above, had been established again in this modern-day facility, over fifty metres below the surface.

“Here he is,” Edmondes said, pointing.

For several seconds Thomas looked at what appeared to be an empty cell. Then, he saw movement on the floor. Something was there, definitely alive. He could see blond hair, probably bleached, and crew cut.

The man sat with his back to the newcomers, stripped to the waist and with his hands joined together. From Thomas’s position, the man appeared to be meditating.

Thomas placed his head to the bars, the cold metal bracing against his forehead. The air was heavy and musty, the smell, he guessed, a depressing combination of steel, a recently painted wall and the man’s natural odour.

The prince looked at Edmondes. “I need not detain you any longer, sir. You may go about your business.”

The request made Edmondes uneasy. Metal railings or not, he didn’t feel safe leaving the prince alone.

“Capt–”

“I said that will be all, sir.”

Edmondes nodded and reluctantly left the room, the automatic door closing swiftly behind him.

Now alone, Thomas concentrated on the cell. A basic single bed had been placed in the corner where two walls met. The paint was fresh, explaining the smell. All of the walls were painted a monotonous grey. The toilet aside, the only other furniture was a small desk in the opposite corner.

There were no windows, no televisions, no reading material.

To the prince, looking at the grey walls and panelled lights on the ceiling was like looking into a pit of despair.

Thomas stood with his arms folded, his eyes on the prisoner.

“Who are you?”

He received no response; instead the man continued to sit perfectly still with his back to the railings and his hands joined together.

“Show yourself!”

Again there was no sign of acknowledgment. The prince walked to one side of the bars and then back to the other. He stopped again, his head leaning against the railing.

Even topless the prisoner looked like a monk. Looking him over completely, the humble barefoot appearance and grey trousers – approximately half of the standard uniform of the prison inmates – suited a man of piety. The man carried himself with a certain radiance, even purpose.

Inwardly, Thomas admired the man’s concentration.

“Who are you?”

Again nothing.

Just complete and utter stillness.

Thomas stood still for at least another minute. Looking at the man’s back, it was impossible to see whether he was even awake.

He pretended to leave.

“I have been waiting a long time for you, Captain. It saddens me that you should give up so quickly.”

The prince stopped and looked again at the man in the cell.

Apart from his mouth, the man had still not moved.

“Didn’t they teach you in the navy that you must stand to face a superior?”

The prince waited for a reaction, but again none was forthcoming. He swallowed, composing himself.

“Enough playing games. On your feet. Stand!”

He shouted the final word, which echoed around the cell. Although the prisoner remained initially unmoved, Thomas noticed a slight turn of his head.

The figure turned further, revealing other parts of his body. For the first time Thomas could make out facial features. The man appeared younger than he had expected, looking no more than thirty. He was white, slim but well built, and, judging from his accent, a native of the north of England.

Morris looked at the prince for the first time, his eyes on the uniform. He made lengthy eye contact before looking up at the silver panels on the ceiling.

“They can see us, you know.”

Thomas remained unmoved. “Who can?”

The man rose to his feet and walked toward the bars. “For over five hundred years your ancestors have sat on the throne of England. Even to this day your family refuses to give up what has never been rightfully yours.”

Thomas folded his arms, confused. “And what might that be?”

The friar laughed, his smile immediately fading. “Soon the rightful inheritors will at last be restored. Accept it, and you may yet live…”

The man gripped the bars.

“Or perhaps you would prefer a different fate.”

Again Thomas was rendered speechless. He looked the prisoner directly in the eye, the window to the soul. Out of keeping with his hair, the man’s eyes were a deep shade of caramel, broken by red veins, perhaps evidence of an infection. In the light, one eye seemed slightly darker than the other, be it a trick or the use of a contact lens, the prince, in truth, was unsure.

“Enough games. Who are you working for?”

“They can see us. Even now. They’re watching us.”

Thomas maintained eye contact as the friar tightened his grip on the bars. He considered speaking but for now decided against it. The man’s concentration was resolute and unblinking.

Almost as though he was looking at a statue.

Morris moved. “Boo!”

The prince jumped, only slightly but enough to excite the prisoner.

“I must say I expected better of you, Captain. A prince of the realm. You are unworthy to be classed in the category of the princes of old.”

“So you know who I am?”

“I know many things.”

Thomas folded his arms, his attention on the man’s torso. There was a tattoo below the left side of his collarbone. It looked like a flower.

“How long have you had that?”

No response, just eye contact.

“Wh-who are you working for?”

The friar moved closer, his body touching the bars.

He spat in Thomas’s face.

The prince remained unmoved. He kept his eyes shut, a reflex from the spit. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the saliva.

The prisoner placed his head to the bars a second time. “Enjoy yourself, son of Clarence. Soon the rightful inheritors shall return. And my work will just be beginning.”

Thomas moved closer to the bars, his face almost touching them. He held the prisoner’s gaze.

The expression in the man’s eyes confirmed his initial suspicions.

Thomas’s reactions were too fast. The prince placed his hands through the bars, grabbing the prisoner’s upper body.

The friar was struggling. The strength of his arms caused Morris to leave the floor. With one swift movement, he turned, his back now to the bars.

“Right, time to drop the charade.”

All Morris could feel was a hand to his neck and another to his upper body.

“Who put you up to this?”

Morris wriggled uncomfortably. Despite the choking sensation, the friar was able to laugh scornfully.

Thomas held him tightly, his hand restricting his air passages. “Tell me, who are you working for?”

The prisoner continued to struggle. He laughed, managing little more than a gagging sound against the prince’s firm hand.

“Tell me who you are working for, and I shall release you.”

“I do not crave release. Nor do I fear death.”

Thomas pounded him against the bars, causing red marks to appear on the friar’s back. “You really believe it to be a secret worth dying for?”

The man struggled to breathe. He fought the feeling of gravity, kicking against the bars. All the while Thomas’s grip remained strong.

Morris choked. “Talbot.”

As the kicking became wilder, the prince dropped him to the floor. Morris fell heavily, the impact hardest on his right knee. The sound of squealing aside, the first thing Thomas noticed was a definite change in the atmosphere.

Gone the resolute hatred and arrogance.

Replacing it, heavy breathing.

“Talbot?” Thomas repeated. “J-Jack Talbot?”

The question went unanswered. He considered asking again, but the prisoner was breathless.

At least he had something worth checking.

The prince straightened his jacket and headed for the door.

“You will never find them,” the friar said. His voice had changed slightly; without question it was less powerful. Slowly he rose to his feet. As he approached the bars, he gestured the prince to approach.

Tentatively the prince came nearer.

“Beware the Sons of York. Beware!”

The prince eyed the prisoner for what seemed like a lifetime before turning away, heading through the door.

“They can see you.”