The Tudor Plot: A Cotton Malone Novella (8 page)

Malone looked at Goulding. “While he does that, I need to use your phone.”

“Mr. Malone, you are saying my daughter is plotting regicide.”

The queen’s voice cracked with emotion.

He’d called William at the palace and told him he needed to speak with Victoria immediately. Mathews had okayed the call, provided no mention was made of him or his agency’s involvement.

“Malone’s right,” James said through the speakerphone. “You heard Yourstone earlier. He told us there are precious few secrets in this world. But I believe we have just confirmed one.”

Malone listened as they explained what happened at the meeting.

“What do we do now?” Victoria asked.

“At least Yourstone knows we’re watching. It might slow him down.”

“Why not just arrest him?” James asked him.

“We have no proof. Talk about a PR disaster. You’d have a giant one. It’s too early for that. But security on Albert should be tightened. Perhaps a retreat to an estate for a few days. That’ll make him easier to protect.”

“He has some previously scheduled duties for today,” William said.

“Finish them. Then change his schedule.”

“And what of our daughter?” Victoria asked.

“Keep her isolated. Do nothing to alert her suspicion.”

“And Richard?”

“He’s not a player, until Albert is dead. Since that isn’t going to happen, just let him be.”

“You sound confident,” the queen said.

“I am.”

“And what of Yourstone?” James asked.

“Leave him to me. No more contact with him, either.”

“I’d prefer to strangle the bloody bastard,” James said.

“You might get your chance, just not at the moment. I’ll be back in touch.”

He ended the call and glanced at Professor Goulding. Mathews was still outside on the phone. “You really believe Arthur is buried in Iceland.”

“With what we already know, combined with what Yourstone uncovered, I think he is.”

“Can the grave be found?”

Goulding nodded.

Yourstone reentered his London flat. Eleanor had stayed with Richard on the pretense of making sure he was all right. The real purpose was to cement the Prince of Wales’ resolve to abdicate.

Inside, he headed straight for his study and was surprised to find his son waiting for him. Andrew was perched in one of the club chairs that faced the fireplace, nursing a snifter of brandy, appearing quite comfortable.

“I thought you’d be out for the day,” Yourstone said, closing the door and stepping toward his desk. “At the races.”

“Not all that exciting. I decided, instead, that you and I should have a chat.”

He could not imagine what they would have to discuss. They were little more than strangers. About as far apart as a father and son could be. “I’m in a bit of a hurry. Can’t this wait?”

“Afraid not.”

He sat behind the desk and decided to see what the imbecile wanted.

“Do you think, dear Father, that you could stop screwing my wife?”

Not exactly what he expected. But he appreciated his son being direct. “And how would you know that was happening?”

“The staff talks. But don’t blame them. I overheard a private conversation. They have no idea I know. But I’ve had suspicions for some time. Contrary to what you and my lovely wife believe, I’m not stupid. So I’ve been thinking about why you would do such a despicable thing, wondering what precisely you are up to. You’re always up to something, aren’t you?”

“A man without ambition is lost.”

“Is that meant to insult me?”

“It was meant to motivate you.” He decided to see how far his son was willing to go. “Does becoming king of England appeal to you?”

Andrew coolly savored a sip of brandy.

“You don’t seem surprised by the question.”

“Nothing you do surprises me.”

“I intend for our family to rule this nation.”

“Which finally explains why you wanted me to marry the third in line. I wondered the reason you were so keen on the union. Seemed useless to me. But for Eleanor to be queen Richard and Albert both would have to be out of the way.”

No need to voice the obvious. His silence at his son’s speculation was answer enough.

“Impressive,” Andrew said. “I never realized the depth of your passion. You are a grand schemer, and a dangerous one at that.”

“I am only looking after the future of this family. The future of our nation. Yourstones have served the Crown faithfully. It is time that others serve us.”

“And when will this … 
change
 … happen?”

“Soon.”

“How your gut must churn.”

He did not like the young man’s surly tone, but he said nothing.

“I know what a disappointment I am to you. You find me wholly unsuitable to be the next Lord Yourstone. Yet now I will be the crown prince. A position, I’m sure, you personally would like.”

“You are the one married to Eleanor.”

Andrew stood from the chair, downed the rest of the brandy, and tabled the snifter. “You never answered my first question. Can you stop screwing my wife?”

“You’re sterile.”

The news did not surprise his son, either.

Andrew chuckled. “I’ve always wondered why none of the tarts I’ve bedded fell pregnant. I thought it just good fortune.”

“I paid the doctor who ran the palace’s fertility test, prior to the marriage, to lie.”

“And then he died. I noticed that.”

“Would you rather have him alive to contradict the results?”

His son shrugged. “I suppose not.”

“It matters not that you are sterile?” he asked.

“I despise children. The last thing I would want is another one of me.”

“To be king and queen means your wife must produce an heir.”

He watched as Andrew considered that reality, the dots connecting.

“All right. If we need a Yourstone heir, then impregnate Eleanor. Once that’s done, if you touch her I’ll make you sorry.”

He was unaccustomed to any semblance of a backbone from this weak soul. “And how will you do that?”

“I’ll kill you.”

He laughed.

“Not literally, Father. Though the thought is inviting. I’ll simply kill everything you hold dear. Which, in turn, will kill you. All I would have to do is reveal the truth. DNA testing can confirm the actual father of any heir. Then the whole thing unravels.”

“Including your position as crown prince.”

Andrew shrugged. “I was not a king before. I won’t be after. Who cares? As you like to remind me, I have no ambition. Perhaps that’s a good thing? Oh, I just remembered.” His son pointed a finger at him. “You’re the one who cares. So do your duty, Father. For God and country. Then leave my wife alone.”

Andrew left the room.

Yourstone did not move from his chair.

For his son he’d financed the best education, provided the finest tutors, and attempted to mold him into a man. Still, they’d always been distant, and he’d always thought the boy an idiot.

Yet the past few minutes had caused a reassessment.

For the first time he was proud.

Malone settled back in the seat as the helicopter angled up into the afternoon sky. The visit with Professor Goulding had been both enlightening and troubling. The chopper’s passenger compartment was roomy and insulated from both the cool air and the churning rotors.

The helicopter bucked upward, then headed east to London.

A rap from the cockpit window caught his attention. The pilot was pointing to his headset and motioning to another set that hung on the wall. Mathews donned the earphones, motioning for Malone to do the same with a third pair.

“There’s a scrambled communication coming in for Sir Thomas,” the pilot’s voice said in his ears.

Mathews twisted the microphone close to his mouth. “Let’s hear it.”

A few clicks and a voice said, “Guinevere is at the castle with Lancelot.”

“Any luck with the Black Knight?”

“We have no idea of his location but have the sword in sight.”

“We’re on the way. Keep me posted on any changes.”

Mathews removed the headset and signaled for the pilot to end the communication. The older man moved close to him.

“I wanted you to hear that. Albert is about to be murdered.”

The words grabbed his full attention.

“We’ve been monitoring this situation for some time. Peter Lyon plans to act this evening.”

“Then stop him.”

“It’s not that simple. We know where he intends to act, and how, even the point of origin. But your appearance in this offers us a new opportunity—considering the locale and the players involved. I’ve been wondering how we would proceed. Now I know exactly what to do.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. “You have thousands of security people at your disposal. And you need me?”

“I haven’t told you everything. Once I do, I believe you’ll understand why only you can do this.”

Yourstone enjoyed a walnut muffin and the rich Turkish coffee he imported by the case. The jam on the table was concocted from grapes grown on his country estate and was served at Victoria II’s table at Buckingham Palace, something he considered an omen, a signal that all things Yourstone were surely right for England.

He was reading the afternoon newspapers, evaluating the coverage on what had happened with Lord Bryce in the House of Lords. A lengthy editorial in one urged the Commons to seriously consider changes to the monarchy.
The time has come
, the writer urged. At a minimum royals should be forced to live off their personal revenues.
No longer should the people fund their reckless extravagance. The future Richard IV is nothing short of a national embarrassment
, the writer lamented. And not solely for his sexual promiscuity, but also for what the editorialist called
a loose grip on the reality of the modern world and substandard sensitivities to history and tradition
.

That part pleased him.

Many British possessed an almost fanatical obsession with their lineage, and the monarchy was just one of several links with that 2,000-year-old past. Living in a land littered with castles, manors, estates, and battlements only reaffirmed a connection with ancient Brits, Celts, Saxons, and Normans. He’d learned long ago that the proper manipulation of that collective affection could sway public sentiment, and he knew precisely what should be used as a cornerstone for that effort.

Arthur.

No other English character carried such a mystique.

Arthur’s resurrection would come directly after the Saxe-Coburgs’ bloody downfall, at a time when the people would be searching for something to latch on to. Though the idea of dispensing with the monarchy altogether had a certain appeal, he doubted that most would embrace the notion. Oliver Cromwell had made that mistake when he beheaded Charles I in 1649. His Protectorate lasted a mere eleven years before the Stuarts were invited to rule again. And in 1660, after Charles II was crowned, the king ordered Cromwell’s body dug up, hung on a gallows, then decapitated. The head remained displayed on a pole outside Westminster for twenty years until a gale finally blew it away.

Regicide was indeed a dangerous business.

Footsteps caused him to look up from the newspapers.

His personal secretary was stepping across the room toward the table, dressed in his customary gray suit. He stopped a few feet away and remained standing.

“What of Iceland?” Yourstone asked.

“Everything is progressing. But no success, as yet.”

He did not like that report. “What’s the problem? I’ve paid those buggers a fortune and they assured me it wouldn’t take this long.”

“I have reminded them of that. But weather is not cooperating. It’s cold there this time of year.”

“They’re underground.”

“The expedition requires supplies, and arctic conditions make that difficult.”

He poured himself more coffee. He did not offer his employee any—nor, he realized, would any have been accepted. A clear line existed between the upstairs and the downstairs, and this man respected that division. “I’m going to need the Iceland project completed within the next week. It’s critical.”

“What would you suggest I do to spur their efforts?”

“Don’t offer them any more money. Try one of your … unique methods of persuasion. I’ll leave the particulars to your vivid imagination.”

His secretary gave him a nod, signaling a complete understanding. He liked that about the man. No questions, just results.

“I also need imagination used on this Cotton Malone. He knew about the C-83 explosives. That could be a problem.” He paused. “For us all.”

Once Eleanor was crowned this man would become
her
personal secretary. So he had a stake in what was happening.

“And what of our South African ally?”

He said, “Our business with him will soon be complete. I doubt he’ll care about us after that.”

“Does not the fact that someone may be investigating concern you?”

He shrugged. “Not particularly. Lyon will gladly assume the blame for all that is about to happen. I believe he’s actually looking forward to doing so. The terrorist mentality, I assume. He seems to take this trial of his associates quite personally. But I agree. Men like the South African possess agendas unmindful of others. Fanatics come with an assortment of advantages and liabilities.”