The Tudor Plot: A Cotton Malone Novella (4 page)

He let her teasing pass. “It seems that during an Easter feast King Uther became enamored with the wife of the Duke of Cornwall. Uther simply could not control himself and made known his feelings, which sent the duke into a jealous rage.”

“How I envy his wife.”

“Like any good husband, the duke took his wife and left the feast. Like any enraged lover, Uther gathered an army and followed. The duke hid her in Tintagel Castle, then barricaded himself in a nearby fortress to divert Uther away.”

“Such passion for the love of a woman.”

He agreed. “Uther learned where the wife was hidden and consulted Merlin, who used magic to make the king appear like the duke, which allowed Uther to easily enter the castle and climb into the wife’s bed. She, of course, thought she was sleeping with her own husband. When the duke was killed the wife agreed to marry Uther, especially after learning she was pregnant, thus assuring that her child, Arthur, would later become king. So you see, my dear, illicit unions are nothing new in the name of the Crown.”

She chuckled. “That’s what I like about you, Nigel. No conscience at all.”

“Lucky for us, and lucky for England, we are so similar.”

“My mother would go to her grave if she could see me now.”

He pocketed his wallet from the nightstand. “I think the entire nation would fall over dead if they saw you right now.”

“Especially dear Papa.”

Her father, Prince James, the Duke of Edinburgh, was a Scotsman, part of a family that traced its roots back to the time of Henry VIII, when jocks fought England for independence. He was a rough, harsh man the public seemed to worship. Eleanor was in many ways like her father, though she clearly had inherited her mother’s commanding physical presence. He wondered, though, where she acquired such ambition. None of the Saxe-Coburgs had ever shown that trait. But this vixen seemed a new breed. One more to his liking.

“As much as you seem to be enjoying all this, I do have to go,” he said.

“Business to do before evening?”

He rose from the bed. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

He stepped to the door and left, gently closing it behind him.

Yourstone made his way back toward the front of the house. Along the way oil portraits of his ancestors kept him company. Most had been financiers to kings and queens, trusted members of Parliament the Crown had counted on to ensure the status quo was religiously maintained.

Either a Hanover or a Saxe-Coburg, all far more German than English, had sat on the throne since 1714. But the house of Yourstone would soon become the ruling family of England. Where once adversaries on battlefields with pickaxes and short swords fought for the right to rule, the 21st century provided weapons no previous usurper had ever possessed. The printing press, cameras, public opinion polls, and the Internet were proving far more effective than armies.

And the goal was now in sight.

He descended the staircase and reentered his study.

The book that had started it all sat on the table beside his favorite club chair, a 19th-century analysis of a 16th-century manuscript. The editor, a sociologist at the British Museum, had been entranced by the legend of Arthur. The researcher had spent a lifetime searching for proof that Arthur was not a poet’s romantic notion. He’d been fortunate enough to uncover an obscure journal scavenged from a French monastery, which told of something that happened during the summer of 1189 and into 1191.

With Henry II.

A Plantagenet from the 12th century.

The last to rule a united France and England.

He opened the book to a marked section.

During the Octave of the Apostles Peter and Paul, in the nineteenth lunation, on the third day of the week, the fourth day of July in the year of our Lord 1189, a scribe strode across the courtyard of Chinon Castle, toward a chapel. He’d traveled through France to this, the heart of the Angevin empire, and carried a leather bag over one shoulder, taking great care to shield its contents from a summer rain. At the chapel door he lightly knocked and was ordered inside. The dingy stone walls were lit from the glow of candles that struggled in damp air to maintain life. On a threadbare divan lay His Majesty, Henry II. Where once this monarch stood tall, broad-shouldered, with the freckled face of a lion, he presently loomed sick and wretched, a mere shell of the giant he once was. Beside him stood the Archbishop of York, Geoffrey, Henry’s illegitimate son, and it was Geoffrey who directed the scribe to a table where he obediently removed from the satchel several sheets of vellum, a goose quill, and a small jar of black ink
.

“Record whatever the king says,” the archbishop ordered in a quiet voice
.

The scribe’s hand shook with a quake he found hard to control. Here before him was the ruler of a territory that stretched from Ireland, through England, across the channel to Normandy, then south to the Pyrénées. He was the first of the House of Angevin to claim the throne and for thirty-five years his armies had dominated France and England
.

Yet his accomplishments seemed hollow
.

Henry’s legitimate sons, Richard and John, had long schemed with their mother to subvert his throne. Over the past few weeks their treachery had climaxed with Henry’s armies suffering a series of humiliating defeats. Eighty knights and 100 men-at-arms had been taken prisoner at Tours only three days ago. Afterward, towns had been sacked and castles besieged. Henry’s commanders were surrendering at an alarming rate, and only yesterday Henry had been forced to make peace. The terms of surrender required him to place himself in the French king’s hands. He’d also been forced to acknowledge Richard as his sole heir, entitled to inherit all his dominions including England
.

“Baseborn indeed have my other children shown themselves,” Henry slurred through labored breaths. He then motioned up to Geoffrey. “This alone is my true son.”

The scribe wrote furiously to memorialize what his sovereign had said. He was aided by Henry’s incessant coughing that seemed to tax whatever strength he still possessed. Droplets of blood spattered from Henry’s parched lips. The scribe wondered what malady had struck this seemingly invincible man
.

“Now let things go as they may. I care no more for myself or for the world. Shame, shame on a conquered king.”

The scribe dutifully recorded the lamentations, which sounded like the onset of delirium. Never had he heard Henry speak with such pity. He glanced over at Geoffrey with a look that asked if it was wise to write any of this down
.

“Do as he wants,” the archbishop mouthed
.

“I have a message which I desire for you to deliver to my loyal servant Ralph FitzStephen, presently across the sea at Glastonbury Abbey,” Henry said
.

The scribe brought a fresh sheet of vellum before him and gave his full attention
.

“Tell him that I have long known the location for Arthur, King of the Britons. The information was bestowed to me by a Welsh bard who provided enough proof that I believed him. The king and his queen lie at Glastonbury. There was once a church of clay and wattles, where is unclear since it was long ago. Beside that church was a graveyard. There, many feet down into earth, they will find a stone slab. Beneath that slab lies the leaden cross for the King of the Britons. Farther down will be the mortal remains of Arthur and his Guinevere. They were placed there with great reverence with the intent they forever remain. Tell FitzStephen that I want the monks to know this and do with the information as they see fit. For, unlike Richard’s, my love for the church and God is absolute.”

The scribe wrote so quickly that it was difficult to keep ink in the quill
.

“Let them know that I go to meet my God with a satisfaction that my traitorous son may perhaps meet his match. Bring the bones of the great king back into sunshine. Let them cleanse this world of lies. Use their power wisely.”

Henry stopped to catch his breath. Sweat poured from his brow, which Geoffrey dabbed with a damp cloth
.

“Only yesterday, my beloved John, the son I thought above all others would never betray me, turned against me. I can only hope that somewhere within my realm another Arthur might rise and silence the voices of greed and deceit.”

Henry indicated with a flick of his hand that the message was complete. The scribe wrote the final few words, and the vellum was rolled and sealed with a wax signet
.

“Go to England. Take my message to Glastonbury with all haste,” Henry said. Then another coughing spell racked his chest
.

Chills came to his spine each time he read the passage. He’d shared the account with his contact at the
Globe
, who’d been forced to share it with the paper’s publisher. That fool had somehow thought it his duty to inform the palace as to what he’d learned. Why, he didn’t know.

But that betrayal had required definitive action.

Which the voice on the phone earlier had provided.

He could almost see Ralph FitzStephen’s face when, at Glastonbury Abbey, he’d read Henry II’s final words. By then the king was dead, having passed two days after the messenger left Chinon Castle. Henry’s son Richard had immediately claimed the British throne and was busy consolidating power. Glastonbury itself, which represented the heart of English Christendom, awaited its new prior, and a few months later Henry de Sully was appointed to the post by Richard. It was FitzStephen and de Sully who met soon after and realized the full extent of the revelation Henry had provided.

He read the words again.

Beneath that slab lies the leaden cross of the King of the Britons. Farther down will be the mortal remains of Arthur and his Guinevere
.

“Thank God you were at least half right,” he whispered.

Malone listened as Big Ben chimed, signaling 1:30
P.M.
He’d hoped Nigel Yourstone was still in his office at Parliament, but was disappointed to learn he’d left an hour earlier. A call to William secured the address of Yourstone’s London residence, a limestone-and-marble edifice just in Belgravia, not far from Buckingham Palace. He’d always been fond of the direct approach, which was why he believed that a face-to-face encounter with the potential enemy might rattle some cages.

He rang the front doorbell.

To the steward who answered, a middle-aged man with silver-streaked hair and a hooked nose, he introduced himself and said that he would like to speak with Lord Yourstone.

“That would be impossible. His lordship speaks only by appointment.”

“Do you have a pad?” he asked.

The question seemed to catch the attendant off guard, but he recovered and lifted one from a nearby table.

“And a pen?”

Annoyance now registered, but apparently British breeding refused to allow rudeness. The steward slowly reached for a pen and handed it to him. He accepted both offers and wrote: C
OTTON
M
ALONE
, U
NITED
S
TATES
J
USTICE
D
EPARTMENT, TO SEE HIS LORDSHIP ON A PERSONAL MATTER
. W
E CAN TALK HERE OR YOU CAN OFFER YOUR REBUTTAL TO REPORTERS LATER WHEN THEY CALL
. P
ERSONALLY
, I
LIKE THE LATTER COURSE BETTER
.

He tore the top sheet off, folded the paper in half, and handed it over.

Two minutes later the door reopened and he was ushered inside to a spacious study, whose mosaic floor, stuccoed ceiling of elaborate octagonal panels, and gilded furniture screamed Old World extravagance. Yourstone was apparently obsessed with portraiture, as many dotted what appeared to be Carrara marble walls. Classical statuary was abundant, as were busts of Shakespeare, Bacon, and Newton. A portrait dominated the wall behind the desk and was, if Malone was right, a Van Dyck. Pretentiousness was most likely an occupational hazard for someone whose family had come to expect everything from life, but there was something challenging in the look of the man who rose to greet him. Nigel Yourstone was even more imposing up close than on television, and if he was disturbed by the introductory note he showed not a hint of concern, his face as stoic as those on the statutes that encircled the room.

Yourstone thanked the steward, who left, closing the door.

“What may I do for you, Mr. Cotton Malone, United States Justice Department?” The voice was the same baritone from earlier on television. “Your note indicated a personal matter. That, along with the veiled threat about the press, piqued my curiosity. As was its intention. So what is this about?”

“The game’s over.”

His target never flinched. “I was unaware that there was any game ongoing, much less one that I was a participant in. But, if there were, what interest is there for the American Justice Department?”

“Enough that I’m here.”

“To threaten me?”

He shrugged. “I look at it more as instructing you.”

Yourstone threw him a tight stare.

He asked, “Do you know what C-83 is?”

Yourstone didn’t waver as he answered, “I have no idea. Care to enlighten me?”

Malone shrugged off the inquiry. “Doesn’t matter.”

He drifted toward a row of windows that admitted the bright midday sun, lingering before a glass table where a pair of sphinxes, cast in what appeared to be bronze, rested. He assumed there was a story to them, as they were placed in a position of prominence. An oil painting of a manor house hung above them.

“That’s my country home,” Yourstone said. “That painting was commissioned in 1786 for one of my ancestors.”

“A beautiful place,” he said. “Your family has been around a long time.”

“We have served the Crown four centuries.”

“Now your son is married to Victoria’s daughter.”

“For an American, you certainly know a lot about me.”

He shrugged. “I just love the English.” He lightly stroked one of the sphinxes. “It’s not going to work.”

Yourstone’s face remained rigid.