The Tudor Plot: A Cotton Malone Novella (12 page)

“Albert is here?”

Richard shook his head. “He left a short while ago. To a place of safety.”

“You cannot possibly believe I would do anything to harm your son. I myself was at the Tower yesterday.”

“That’s why I wanted to speak with you prior to your seeing the queen. I wanted to hear your explanation myself.”

“What of your father? Does he believe the same?”

“Absolutely.”

His mind raced with possibilities. He needed to speak with Eleanor. But his thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door. Victoria was wheeled into the room by a uniformed attendant. Eleanor entered behind them. The attendant withdrew and shut the door.

The queen faced her son. “I told you to escort Lord Yourstone to me.”

Richard straightened like a scolded schoolboy. “I wanted to speak with him first.”

“Will you ever learn to follow instructions?”

The prince stared at Yourstone. “She wanted me to deceive you. To lead you astray. To help elicit a confession. But I will not be a party to such folly. I do not believe that you are capable of this treachery.”

“You are a blithering fool,” Victoria said. “And your sister is a usurper.”

“I resent that,” Eleanor said.

“You are an ambitious, dangerous woman. Both of you should be grateful that your father is not here. His anger was too intense. I asked him to allow me to handle this alone.”

“What does it matter?” Eleanor asked. “Soon you will be in St. Albert’s Chapel, entombed with the rest of the Saxe-Coburgs.”

“I may disappoint you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You are as evil as your brother is stupid.”

“I admit to nothing.” Eleanor stepped across the room toward the rays of midday sun pouring through the windows.

“You don’t have to admit to a thing,” the queen said. “The proof was found in your purse.”

“I doubt you will implicate your own daughter in a plot to overthrow the Crown.”

“What are you saying, Ellie?” Richard asked.

“Mother is right. You are stupid. You have nearly cost us all.”

“Did you attempt to kill Albert?”

Eleanor said nothing.

“You would shed Saxe-Coburg blood? My son’s blood?”

“You would destroy our reputation?” she fired back. “Our family’s honor?”

“My son is more important.”

“Since when, Richard? You consistently avoid him. Your public comments are nothing like a doting father. You actually seem to resent Albert, as the press has repeatedly observed. Since when has your son meant anything to you? Were you thinking of him while bedding Lady Bryce?”

Her brother’s eyes flared with rage. For an instant Yourstone saw a flash of the Scottish heritage their father had bestowed upon them.

Then confusion reappeared.

“You may think me ignorant,” Victoria said to her daughter. “Feeble and not of sound mind. But you are wrong. I will have you, and Yourstone, prosecuted and jailed for treason.”

“You will do nothing,” Eleanor declared.

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because of Albert. You want him to be king. For the people to learn that a royal sibling plotted the overthrow of the monarchy would forever end the Saxe-Coburgs. Thanks to Dickie, here, our tolerance level among the public is virtually nonexistent. No. You will do nothing that jeopardizes the succession to Albert.”

The queen shifted in the wheelchair. “Your father wishes never again to lay eyes upon you.”

“If that is my only punishment, I can endure the loss.”

“And you will be removed from the civil list. No more money.”

She shrugged. “My husband is wealthy.”

“Your in-laws are traitors.”

“But that, too, will remain our secret,” Yourstone said. “Now, won’t it?”

The queen said nothing, but the look of contempt on her face was piercing. Richard retreated to the far side of the room.

Something else Sun Tzu had taught 2,500 years ago occurred to him.
Know the enemy and know yourself and in a hundred battles you will never be defeated
.

So true.

He was home free.

“Richard, push me from this room before I vomit,” the queen said. “You can perhaps be forgiven for your idiocy. Your soul is totally without malice. But this devil, your sister, and her traitor of a father-in-law cannot.”

The prince grasped the wheelchair.

“You will both remove yourself from the palace immediately and neither of you will ever set foot here again.”

“Until you’re dead,” Eleanor said.

“No, Ellie,” Richard said.

The prince’s eyes focused tight.

“That order will remain in my reign, and in my son’s and his children’s thereafter. That much I swear will be done.”

Malone stared into the lit room, his gaze focusing on what looked like an enormous high-backed couch. He stepped close and caressed the top edge. “Bronze?”

“Celts were good with metal,” Goulding said.

Its blackened face was embossed with dancing figures and horses pulling carts. The workmanship was intricate and had survived intact.

Lying across the couch were the remains of a skeleton.

From end to end the figure appeared about six feet tall. Only bones remained. Bits of cloth lay scattered among the bones—perhaps, he thought, burial robes long gone to dust. A gold ornament rested where the neck had once existed. Malone suspended his hand above the band. The diameter spread the width of his extended fingers. “He was a big man.”

Malone knelt before the bier and noticed that it rested on eight metal statues, each a woman, bare-breasted, atop a unicycle, the wheel of each cycle forming a caster. The design was ingenious and sophisticated. He traced the outline of lettering with his gloved hands.

“Latin,” Goulding said. “It’s a hope the deceased finds the other world and is happy. Only leaders were given this honor.”

He studied the rest of the room. Dark shadows signaled more objects. On the far side, to the right of the entrance, sat a wagon made of what appeared to be wood. He stepped toward it and saw iron wheels festooned with bronze chains and figurines. Like the couch, the workmanship was astonishing.

“Probably ash, elm, or maple,” Goulding said. “I’ve read about these. Seen drawings. Bits and pieces have been found. But nothing has survived whole. This is quite an archaeological discovery.”

The cart bed was piled with bowls, plates, platters, and knives.

“What’s the point of the tableware?” he asked.

“Necessities of the afterlife. Celts believed in an afterworld. Death was but a brief pause in an endless cycle of rebirth. So their dead were equipped for the long voyage. The grander the deceased, the richer the grave.” The professor pointed. “Bowls and plates were for eating, knives for hunting.” Two rows of ornamented drinking horns hung from iron chains. One horn was larger than the other six. “A mighty cup for Arthur, the rest for his companions.”

“Cup of what?”

“Over there.”

In the remaining corner sat a bronze cauldron. Its handles were crafted as lions, but the images were distorted, more caricatures than faithful animal representations. He followed Goulding over to it. Sediment filled the inside, black and hard as stone.

“Fermented honey mead. A common drink for Celts in the 6th century. The drinking horns would have been used to empty this cauldron. Can’t go to the afterworld thirsty.”

He knelt down and studied the odd-shaped lions.

“Celtic representations,” Goulding said. “There were no lions in Britain. They would have learned about them from Romans. These are the artist’s imagination at work.”

“You know this stuff.”

“It’s my world. Finding a tomb, like this, is the coup of a lifetime.”

He noticed etchings in the side of the cauldron.

Goulding bent down close. “Incredible. It’s a battle history. Mount Baden, Cat Coit Celidon, City of Legion. Those are all places where Arthur supposedly fought Saxons. The last line speaks of
gueith Camlann
, the Strife of Camlann, where history notes Arthur supposedly died. Incredible. This is his obituary, 6th-century style.”

Malone noticed the intricate carving of a horse, a warrior perched on top, his chest protected by a cuirass, the head helmeted. The right hand wielded a sword, the left a lance. The man sat tall atop the animal, ready for a fight.

“Arthur would have fought on horseback,” Goulding said.

On a slab beside the cauldron lay more items. Buckles of bronze. A sword hilt and scabbard embellished with blackened silver. Armlets decorated with elaborate filigree. Thumb rings of enameled copper and tin. A boar’s tusk carved with more scenes from battle.

“His things?” he asked.

“It was tradition to bury a warrior with his possessions. They would be needed in the afterworld.”

Porticos notched the wall, and a few contained the remnants of skulls.

“Defeated enemies,” Goulding noted. “It was a sign of respect to bury their skulls with the dead warrior.”

A cross filled one niche, fashioned from stone, its face divided into clear panels, each a maze of animals and knotwork designs. A burst of light caught Malone’s gaze, and he stepped close to see the center filled with a crystal the size of his fist.

“Diamond?” he asked.

Goulding shook his head. “Celts would not have known diamonds. Quartz of some sort, more than likely. Oh … my.”

He caught the surprise in the voice and saw Goulding heading for a container lying on the rock floor. It was shaped like a house with a gabled roof and ridgepoles attached to the crown. A band adorned with a beast head wrapped the eaves and sides. Its exterior appeared a combination of bronze and silver inlaid with gems.

“It’s a
cumdach
. Portable shrine. They were used to store books and manuscripts. I’ve only seen drawings of them. Yet here’s one in absolute pristine condition.”

Malone studied the construction. “It appears it’ll take us both to open it.”

“Is that wise?”

“We’re not on an archaeological dig. We need to see what’s inside.”

He gripped one set of the ridgepoles and Goulding clasped the other. They lifted in unison and the lid came free, sending a cascade of sand showering off as they laid the gabled top on the ground. The interior was lined with more bronze, the space empty save for a single volume, which measured about six by eight inches and two inches thick.

He carefully swiped the air above the book and shooed away centuries of dust. Faded writing could be seen.

D
E EXCIDIO ET CONQUESTO
B
RITANNIE

“
On the Ruin and Conquest of Britain
. This is a Gildas manuscript.”

He listened as Goulding told him about Gildas Sapiens, who lived in Britain and died somewhere around 572
CE
—but not before penning a scathing attack on his contemporary churchmen and political rulers.

“His words were a history of post-Roman, pre–St. Augustine Britain, a clear denunciation of secular and ecclesiastical authority. Most historians, though, regard his observations as more fiction than fact. But they remain the only firsthand account of 6th-century Britain.”

He caught Goulding’s excitement.

“There are about seventy editions of his work still around. I’ve seen the one in the British Museum. It’s a 10th-century handwritten copy of an 8th-century text.”

“Double hearsay?”

“Exactly. Who knows if it’s accurate. It’s also badly burned in places, and less than half the pages are legible.”

“You think this is an original?”

“If this tomb was fashioned in the 6th century, it’s entirely possible. Gildas lived during Arthur’s time. He was an ardent observer, a political critic at a time when criticism was not tolerated. He was learned in Latin and could read and write.” Goulding caressed the top sheet, as if carefully probing a sore. “Vellum. Much better than parchment or papyrus, and this giant refrigerator has preserved it. So, yes, Mr. Malone, this could be an original.”

“Go ahead.”

“Disturb it?”

“Why not? You know you want to. Frankly, I’m curious, too.”

Goulding reverently lifted the book from its container, balancing it on one palm, studying the pages, which rested on top of one another with no binding. A quick count revealed about sixty, and the vellum was waffled from time. The professor laid the bundle across one corner of the chest and carefully lifted off the top page, using both hands from underneath, cradling the sheet before setting it aside. Each one possessed a creamy white patina, an almost unused look, the writing faded to a light gray, the penmanship small and tight, words running the entire length with no paragraphs or punctuation.

Malone knew about Dark Age manuscripts. Writing materials were scarce, so every bit of surface was used with no margins.

“Can you translate?”

Goulding read in silence. “It’s Latin. But readable.” A pause. “It’s a bloody record of Arthur’s life. I’ve read some of the other Gildas translations. Nothing like this was ever part of those interpolations.”

“Maybe because you’re reading the true edition.”

“There’s actually another explanation. Gildas was the son of Caw, king of Scocie, one of twenty-three siblings. His brothers were, to a man, warriors. One in particular, Huail, plagued Arthur by pillaging and burning villages. Finally, Arthur pursued and killed Huail. When Gildas was informed of the murder he reportedly threw into the sea all of his writings that mentioned Arthur.”

“Which explains why there are, to this day, no contemporary accounts of Arthur’s life. The only reporter of the time purged the record.”

“But this manuscript survived,” he said. “And if it’s authentic, this represents the proof historians have long sought regarding Arthur.”

Goulding returned his attention to the words, lifting off more sheets as he scanned the pages. “It’s decipherable. The punctuation is nonexistent. So are paragraphs. But I can adjust the prose. Listen to this.”

A summer’s night brought a gathering of nobles in Wessex forest, near the river. They sat upon a litter of straw and the fleece of wolves and dogs. Cauldrons and spits overflowed with meat and children served elders. The bravest of warriors, as was tradition, received the finest portion of flesh. Arthur led the talk, though he was not a man given to stories. His mustache hung long and thick and milk soaked the mane, at times making it difficult for him to eat. There was laughter from his attempts to keep the hairs clean, which he did not seem to mind. He neither rejoiced in victory nor was downcast in defeat. Both states be but temporary, he was given to say. His was of only one purpose. To rid the land of Saxons. On this night he spoke of the battles at the River Glein, three at the River Dubglas, and another at the River Bassas. At another nearly a thousand Saxons fell in one day from one charge, he alone standing at the end. There is no doubt that Saxons fear him. His voice echoes of a man who long ago abandoned family for the sake of nation. When one of the nobles challenged his account of a battle he was quick to confront the objector. Their disagreement led to combat and he drove the breath from his challenger with a thrust of his sword. All agreed the fight was fair, the insult satisfied. After, he sat alone and no attempt was made to include him in conversation. His solitude stands him apart, but also makes others follow. He is the will of Briton
.