The King's Deception (28 page)

Crowds were heavy—no surprise as it was the weekend and this one of those must-sees for any visitor to London with its Poets’ Corner, the elaborate chapels, and the dust of so many monarchs. America had nothing to equal it. This church was a thousand years old and had borne witness to nearly everything associated with England since the Norman invasion.

He followed the ambulatory around the sanctuary to polished marble stairs that led up to the chapel of Henry VII. Built by the first Tudor king as his family’s tomb, it eventually acquired the name
orbis miraculum
, wonder of the world, and rightly so. The massive entrance
gates were of bronze, mounted to oak, embellished with roses, fleurs-de-lis, and Tudor badges. Inside was a three-aisled nave with four bays and five chapels. Wooden stalls lined both sides, above which were hung the banner, sword, helmet, and scarf of a Knight of the Bath.

Another one of those ancient groups.

Created by George I, revived by George V, now part of English lore as the fourth most senior order of chivalry.

Unlike the Daedalus Society.

Which seemed to exist only in the shadows.

Richly carved niches, each displaying a statue, encircled the chapel beneath fragile-looking, clerestory windows. But it was the ceiling that captivated. Fan-vaulted with tracery and pendants, suspended as if by magic, the fretted roof more like a fragile cobweb than carved stone.

At the far end stood Henry VII’s tomb. A focal point and a contradiction. More Roman than Gothic. Understandable, considering an Italian created it. Maybe seventy-five people were admiring the chapel. He’d made the call last night, after leaving the analyst’s apartment, and was told to come at opening time, with the hard drives, which he carried in a plastic shopping bag. This place, with its many visitors, offered him some comfort regarding security, but not much. The people he was bargaining with were connected, determined, and bold.

So he told himself to stay on guard.

“Mr. Antrim.”

He turned to see a woman, late fifties, short, petite, gray-blond hair drawn into a bun. She wore a navy pantsuit with a short jacket.

“I was sent to meet with you,” she said.

“You have a name?”

“Call me Eva.”

G
ARY HAD BEEN GLAD
,
LAST NIGHT
,
TO SEE
I
AN
. A
ND HE INSTANTLY
liked the older woman who introduced herself as Miss Mary.

She was a lot like his dad’s mother, who lived a few hours south of Atlanta in middle Georgia. He always spent a week with her in the summer, as his mother maintained a good relationship with her ex-mother-in-law. But it was hard not to like Grandma Jean. Soft-spoken, easygoing, never a bad word uttered.

They’d spent the night at the house where he and his dad had been taken yesterday. Ian had told him what happened at the bookstore, then after when they rescued the SOCA agent. Gary was concerned but pleased that his dad had handled things. Antrim had not stayed with them, but called to say that all was well with his dad.

“He’s going to follow up on a few things in the morning,” Antrim said. “I told him you were fine here.”

“Did you mention anything about you and me?”

“We’ll do that together, face-to-face. He’s got a lot to deal with at the moment. We can tell him tomorrow.”

He’d agreed.

Now they were back in the warehouse office, alone, the other two agents outside. Antrim nowhere around.

“Do you know where my dad was headed?” he asked Ian and Miss Mary.

Ian shook his head. “He didn’t say.”

Yesterday he’d wanted to talk more with Antrim, but that had not been possible. He had to talk about it. So he told them what he’d learned last night.

“Are you sure this is true?” Miss Mary asked him when he finished.

He nodded. “We took a DNA test that will prove it.”

“What a shock this must be to you,” she said. “Finding your birth father. Here.”

“But at least you found out,” Ian said. “Your mom should have told you.”

“Perhaps she had a good reason for keeping that name to herself,” Miss Mary said.

Gary, though, was sure. “I’m glad I know.”

“And what will you do with this information?” Miss Mary asked him.

“I don’t know yet.”

“And where is Mr. Antrim?”

“He’ll be here. He’s a CIA agent, on assignment. My dad’s helping him out.”

But he was still concerned.

He recalled his parents’ divorce, when his mother had explained how years of worrying had taken a toll. He’d not understood what she meant then, but he did now. The uncertainty of not knowing if someone you loved was in trouble worked on you. He’d only experienced it for a few hours. His mother had endured it for years. He’d been angry when his parents divorced, unsure exactly why they were
better off apart
, as they’d both made clear. Afterward, he’d witnessed firsthand the bitterness between them. Peace had only been made between his parents a month ago with all that happened in Austria and the Sinai, but he hadn’t noticed much of a change in his mother. Still anxious. Still agitated. Still short-tempered.

Then he’d learned why, when she told him the truth.

And he hadn’t made things easy for her.

Demanding to know his birth father’s identity. She refusing. He threatening to live in Denmark.

Lots of conflict.

More than either of them was accustomed to.

He needed to speak with his mother.

And when Antrim or his dad returned, he’d do that.

A
NTRIM DECIDED TO ALLOW
E
VA HER MOMENT AND ASKED
, “Why are we here?”

“Walk with me.”

She led him toward the tomb of Henry VII.

“This is, perhaps, the greatest single chapel in all of England,” she said, her voice low. “Henry is there, with his queen, Elizabeth of York. Below is the Tudor vault, where James I and the boy Edward VI lie. Around us are the tombs of Mary, Queen of Scots, Charles II, William III, Mary II, George II, and Queen Anne. Even the two
princes of the Tower, Edward IV’s sons, murdered by their uncle Richard III, are here.” She turned left and stopped before one of the pointed arches, opening into a side bay. “And, then, there is this.”

He stared at the black-and-white marble monument with its columns and gilded capitals. The woman lying atop, carved in stone, wore regal robes.

“The final resting place of Elizabeth I,” Eva said. “She died March 24, 1603, and was first buried over there, with her grandfather, in the vault beneath. But her named successor, James I, erected this monument, so she was moved in 1606, and has stayed here ever since.”

They approached the tomb, along with a small crowd.

“Notice her face,” Eva whispered.

He stepped close and saw that it was that of an old woman.

“The Mask of Youth had been imposed by law during the final years of her reign. No artist could depict Elizabeth except as a young woman. But here, on her grave, for all eternity, that mandate was not followed.”

The effigy wore a crown and collar and held an orb and scepter in either hand.

“There are two bodies in this tomb,” Eva said. “Elizabeth and her half sister, Mary, who reigned before her. By now, their bones have merged. Look here.”

She pointed to a Latin inscription at the base of the monument.

“Can you read it?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Partners in throne and grave, here we sleep, Elizabeth and Mary, sisters, in hope of the Resurrection.”

“Odd, wouldn’t you say? Burying them together.”

He agreed.

“Both were monarchs, each entitled to her own tomb,” she said. “But instead they rest together. Another clever move on Robert Cecil’s part, allowing the remains to mingle. No one would ever know who was who. Of course, Cecil knew nothing of comparative anatomy and DNA testing. For his day, burying them together would have concealed everything.”

“Has anyone ever looked inside?”

She shook her head. “This tomb has never been opened. Not even during the Cromwell years and civil war.”

He still wanted to know, “Why am I here?”

The tourists moved on to another site.

“The Lords thought you might like to see how the secret you seek hides in so public a place.”

“The Lords?”

“You met them, in the Round. They govern our society. Each acquires his post hereditarily, and have since 1610 when Daedalus was first started by Robert Cecil. You, of course, understand Cecil’s connection to Elizabeth.”

Yes, he did. He served as her secretary of state at the time of her death. “But Cecil died in 1612.”

She nodded. “He was always a sickly man. The Daedalus Society was part of his legacy. He knew of the great secret, one nobody has really cared about until the last few decades. To your credit, you managed to delve deeper than anyone thought possible.”

But he’d had help from that old CIA briefing memo, detailing what a few intrepid Irish lawyers had tried to do forty years ago.

Eva pointed at the tomb. “This monument to Elizabeth is the last one ever erected in Westminster over the spot where a sovereign was buried. Isn’t it interesting that, though two are buried here, only Elizabeth is displayed on top? And as an old woman, directly contrary to her wishes?”

He was listening.

“Robert Cecil oversaw Elizabeth’s funeral and her entombment. He then served her successor, James I, as secretary of state and personally oversaw the building of this monument. Again, only you would understand the significance of that fact.”

He did. Farrow Curry had taught him about both Cecils, and especially Robert. He was a short man with a crooked back, who walked awkwardly on splayed feet. He had a penetrating gaze from black eyes, but was consistently noted as courteous and modest, with a
gentle sweetness
. Aware of his lack of physical attraction he became a man of two personalities. One as a public servant—prudent, rational,
and reliable. The other as a private gentleman—extravagant, a reckless gambler, a lover of women, subject to prolonged bouts of deep depression. His popularity with the people waned the longer he served. Enemies amassed. His influence eventually slipped and his ability to produce results dimmed. By the time he died he was hated, called the Fox for unflattering reasons. He recalled a rhyme Curry had said was popular at the time.

The fact that Cecil created a coded journal was puzzling, and seemed contradictory to his secretive nature. But, as Curry had explained, what better way for posterity to credit him than by leaving the only way to discover the secret’s existence? Everyone who mattered would be dead. Control the information and you control the result. And the only one who would benefit from that would be Robert Cecil.

Eva led him to one side of the monument and pointed at another Latin inscription, which she translated.

“To the eternal memory of Elizabeth, queen of England, France, and Ireland, daughter of King Henry VIII, granddaughter of King Henry VII, great-granddaughter to King Edward IV. Mother of her country, a nursing mother to religion and all liberal sciences, skilled in many languages, adorned with excellent endowments both of body and mind, and excellent for princely virtues beyond her sex. James, king of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, hath devoutly and justly erected this monument to her whose virtues and kingdoms he inherits.”

He caught the key words.

Excellent for princely virtues beyond her sex
.

More meaningless and unimportant phrases, unless you knew that Elizabeth I was not what she had seemed.

“Clever, wouldn’t you say?”

He nodded.

“There is a lot about Robert Cecil that fits into that category.
For a Renaissance man it was a sign of a superior spirit to wish to be remembered after death. If Cecil was nothing else, he was that.”