“Why are you uncertain?” he asked.
“I’ve finished reading all the Lady Pamela letters that Jenny and Izabel have compiled,” she replied.
“Me too,” Kit said.
“And?” prompted Perdita.
“They’re an odd mix,” he hedged.
“Odd mix?” she snorted. “Kit, that’s a huge understatement. I know they’re still working on the later letters, so we only have until June 1586, but the story they tell is so vastly different from ‘historical truth’ I’m beginning to wonder if they’re fakes.”
Kit threw the ball of red wool he had been using to create the lines on the wall to join the varying members of the family tree together on to his sofa and moved away from his masterpiece to sit at his desk. Perdita flopped into the chair opposite him.
“I thought so, too,” he admitted.
“Why didn’t you say…” began Perdita, but Kit interrupted her.
“But rather than throw my doubts at you like I kept doing before, I decided to do some digging and see if I could discover anything useful before we both sat down in despair.” He pulled out a folder from his desk and pushed it towards Perdita. She was touched by his consideration.
Perdita flicked through the pages of emails, noticing they included messages from the Pembrokeshire Archive, Pembroke Castle Trust, Dyfed Archaeology, Picton Castle, Carew Castle, Haverfordwest Castle and various other contacts of Kit’s from his years of working for Jerusalem.
“The Lady Pamela letters claim there was an invasion of the Welsh coast by the Spanish in 1586,” she said, thinking aloud, “yet no history book anywhere even hints at such a thing. The only vague suggestion was in January or February 1587, when Burghley told Elizabeth that the Spanish Armada had landed on the Welsh coast, terrifying her into signing the death warrant for the execution of Mary, Queen of Scots. Historians have always stated Burghley fabricated this in order to manipulate the queen — in other words, he lied.”
“Except, maybe he didn’t,” said Kit, “but because it was such a bizarre idea and there was no other paperwork to confirm this, historians have created their own neat version: Burghley lied as a means to an end to achieve his main objective, the death of Mary, Queen of Scots and with her demise, the elimination of the Catholic threat to Elizabeth’s Protestant throne. Burghley was a staunch Protestant. But, having lived in and around the Pembrokeshire coastline for most of my life, something struck me, hence my quiet investigation so I could speak with some authority.”
“Come on then, Smug-Mackensie-Kid,” said Perdita, placing the file on the desk. “You’ve obviously discovered something, so spit it out.”
“In all the years I’ve been visiting the castles along the Welsh coast, and trust me, when we were kids, Mary took us to them a lot. I think she liked to pretend you and Piper were there, too,” he added, looking at her white face. “Anyway, for years it had never struck me, but after reading this, I had an epiphany.”
“Which is, what?”
“All the castle tours tell the visitors about very early history: William Marshall, Princess Nest, the Normans, and then there’s a leap to the late 17th century and the Civil War.”
“What are you saying?” asked Perdita, sitting forward, urging Kit to reach the point.
“There is practically no information for any of these castles for the time period covered by the Lady Pamela letters. The records at Picton Castle were destroyed in a fire. Carew mentions the Perrot family very briefly and the fact the castle was modernised in Elizabethan times, but nothing else, and, most staggering of all, Pembroke Castle, that has hugely detailed timelines skips the Tudor period altogether, except for a small mention of Henry VII being born there and how he and his uncle, Jasper Tudor, escaped during the Wars of the Roses using secret passages under Tenby that led down to the harbour. I contacted a mate at the Pembrokeshire Archives to see if they had anything that could fill in the blanks but there was nothing.”
“But that’s impossible,” said Perdita.
“There was one guidebook entitled, A Short History and Guide to Pembroke Castle, which was published in the mid-1970s. It skipped from 1536 to James I’s rule, stating the castle remained as crown property until the young Scottish king, who was now King of England and Wales, gifted it to a private individual: Major General Sir Ivor Philipps, KSB DSO, whose family kept ownership until 1928.”
“But James didn’t come to the throne until 1603,” said Perdita, “that’s a huge leap of 67 years!”
“Exactly. There was also a very small booklet called, A Guide to Pembroke Castle, priced at one shilling, that claimed there were no records for Pembroke Castle from 1595 until the Civil War in 1642 and all that could be found for the 1595 date was a record that stated, ‘all the walls of Pembroke Castle are standing very strong, without decay, only the roofs and leads have been taken down’. There is discussion of a new dig taking place there soon to open up a search from the 1930s, when it was suggested there could have been a manor house within the walls of the castle, but it’s ongoing.”
“Within the walls?” queried Perdita. “I’ve never heard of that before. It would be a unique discovery.”
“It might also explain where all the Tudor history has disappeared to,” said Kit. “The only reference to Henry VII’s birth is from John Leland, the poet and antiquarian who describes a fireplace in the room where Henry was born. It was always thought to be one of the larger towers but it could have been a room in this mysterious manor.”
“As you say, it would explain the lack of information from the Tudor period,” she agreed. “And Haverfordwest Castle?”
“Nothing firm for the Tudor period there either, only references to later on. There’s certainly nothing for the times these letters covers.”
A smile was breaking over Perdita’s face. “Then the letters must be genuine,” she said. “If you, with all your contacts and research capability can’t find official records for any of these castles at the time we now have correspondence suggesting there was a coup, the real records must have been deliberately destroyed in order to hide something enormous.”
“And an invasion, even a failed one, is pretty huge.”
“Oh Kit, I could kiss you!” exclaimed Perdita, leaping from her seat.
“I’m not stopping you,” he said and smiled at her.
Perdita shot him a flirtatious look and tried to control her racing heart before continuing. “I’d almost convinced myself these letters were a fabrication but it seems they’re not. They’re the only surviving records of what really happened in the summer of 1586 on the Pembrokeshire coast,” she said and marched over to Kit’s wallchart. “Although, I do still wonder if Lettice is the missing heir?”
“All the evidence points that way…” began Kit, then understanding flooded his face. “Very clever,” he said, almost to himself. “Whoever this person, The Scribe, was, he or she was remarkably good at distraction.”
Perdita turned back to him and grinned. “My thoughts, exactly,” she said, relieved. “When I was going through the notes, it kept reminding me of Catherine Howard and how the only evidence ever ‘found’ concerning her supposed affair with Thomas Culpepper was information that incriminated her. The only details we have left about Lettice Knollys are sketchy and with only a few definitive dates: her marriages, her children and her death, but there are no letters concerning one of the most tempestuous of those relationships — her marriage to Robert Dudley — and it’s suspicious. It’s as though she’s been set up as a decoy.”
“Would it have been deliberate?”
“I’m not sure,” admitted Perdita. “There is one letter that intrigues me because it’s from She-Wolf to Lady Griffin, saying the plan put in place by She-Wolf’s father is working. If we’re taking it that She-Wolf is Lettice, her father is Sir Francis Knollys, another man who was part of the Catherine Howard conspiracy, so it wouldn’t be beyond him to create a smokescreen again to protect the real heir.”
“Using his daughter?” asked Kit, sounding uncertain.
“She must have agreed.”
“It’s possible, Perds,” he said, his eyes thoughtful, “but if we’re suggesting Lettice isn’t the heir, do you have any thoughts about who it could be?”
“No, not yet, but there is another section I want to check. There are a few miscellaneous letters that Jenny couldn’t identify. She emailed them last night — you were copied in on the message.”
Kit glanced at his inbox and gave her a thumbs up. “Do you want some help?” he asked, his eyes straying back to his wallchart.
“No, I wouldn’t want to come between a man and his ball of red wool,” said Perdita. “I’ll be across the corridor if you need any help unravelling yourself.”
Reinvigorated by Kit’s findings, Perdita hurried back into her own office, flipped open her laptop and printed out Jenny’s email. Within minutes, she was engrossed in the detailed document.
Perdita, there are a number of letters here that are unsigned but by studying the writing we’ve tried to identify the correct authors and place similar letters together, however, these are not definitive and are only our best guesses. The oddest is note 12678b. It is something of an anomaly, the handwriting is unique in this collection and there is no date to help us to identify the writer. However, Izabel and I both think there might be a small similarity in the formation of the letters ‘a’, ‘z’ and ‘M’ to those of the letters attributed to Lettice Knollys, so for now, we’ve included it with these.’
Looking at the scan of the short letter, Perdita understood why they were unsure. It was only a few lines long and could barely be classed as a note, let alone a letter, and it was written in French. She wondered if it had been part of another piece of correspondence that had been lost over time.
Baby Elizabeth arrived with a ring on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception of the blessed Virgin Mary. She is now our beloved daughter, Mary.
Perdita read it through a number of times. It did not make sense. Perhaps it was the translation, she thought, returning to the copy of the original, but however she translated it herself, and no matter how many language programs she used online, the meaning did not alter.
“What’s up, Perds?” asked Kit, when she beckoned him over half an hour later.
“This,” she said, glaring down at the note in frustration before pushing the paperwork towards him. “What do you think it means?”
Kit considered it, then gave it back to her. “Don’t know. There were so many Elizabeths and Marys, it’s hard to say who it’s even referring to.”
“Elizabeth and Mary,” mused Perdita. “The Tudor queens, or two of Lettice Knollys’s sisters were called Elizabeth and Mary.”
“And two of Arbella Stuart’s cousins were Elizabeth and Mary,” said Kit. “Every time you turn around in the Tudor court you trip over an Elizabeth or a Mary.”
“Elizabeth and Mary, Elizabeth and Mary.” Perdita muttered it under breath like an incantation, staring at the note. Kit wandered across the room and sat on the sofa. She could feel his eyes upon her but she could not break away and speak to him yet. An idea was forming in her mind, as insubstantial as morning mist but there was a thread there and she could not afford to lose it.
She continued to run through Elizabeths and Marys who were high status enough to be important. Elizabeth. Mary. Elizabeth. Mary. Elizabeth is now our beloved daughter, Mary…
“Baby Elizabeth Tudor,” she said aloud, while a thought took shape, “Catherine Howard’s graffiti in Marquess House — the two names: Elizabeth and Nicholas.”
“Baby Elizabeth is now our beloved daughter, Mary,” quoted Kit.
Perdita was on her feet, utter certainty driving her as clarity overtook doubt: this letter was referring to the missing female child. Catherine’s daughter. Elizabeth…
“With a ring,” she said, her voice stronger now, as she pulled her theory together. “It must be the ruby ring. We know Catherine sent hers with her daughter. It was probably the only personal item she had to give to the child to remember her by.”
“When’s the Feast of the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary?” asked Kit.
“The eighth of December.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, definitely.”
“Then we need to find girls called Mary who were born on or around that date,” said Kit.
Perdita turned away in order to hide her confusion and excitement. There was someone who had been born on that date and she had been called Mary. Perdita remembered learning about her at school — it was this woman’s story that had prompted Perdita’s burgeoning interest in history, but it was impossible. It could not be. She shook her head, clearing the thought from her mind. She must be mistaken.
Let the evidence lead you, she reminded herself, let the facts prove themselves. Don’t try to force the facts to fit your theory.
“We need to go to the library,” she said. “There’s something we need to check.”
Grabbing his hand, Perdita dragged Kit behind her, wondering if she dared believe in the hypothesis she was forming. If she was correct, then discovering Catherine Howard had not been executed seemed almost trivial because, in comparison, this secret was enormous and the ramifications could be shattering.
Perdita tore through the castle, her mind in constant motion. She was aware of the warmth of Kit’s palm against her own, his closeness as he hurried along beside her. Never before had she realised quite how much of a partnership they had formed. Even his quiet investigations into the history of the Pembrokeshire castles showed how much he trusted her judgement. During their quest for Catherine Howard’s true story he had doubted and questioned her, waiting for her to prove herself correct before he would add his own intellectual weight to her theories. Now, he was following her lead and helping her to prove her ideas. He was truly by her side, in every sense. The thought made Perdita feel unexpectedly content.
But would he believe what she was about to suggest? She could be wrong, but it would explain why an elite force of spies had been charged with protecting this secret — why the mysterious character that Alistair’s great-great-grandfather, Douglas Mackensie had dubbed The Scribe was also written from history and why there was still an armed, military section of the Secret Services whose sole purpose was to stop this information becoming public knowledge.
The Watchers did not know the full details, either. The secret had been buried so deeply that they too had lost sight of the truth — Alistair had explained this much to them in the summer. They must have an idea though, thought Perdita, as she ran towards the library, and that’s why they are so diligent about retaining the structure of Tudor history. If one thread unravelled, the entire fabrication could tumble down. The Watchers must have access to more secret documents than anyone else and she found it hard to believe that the government did not know the truth.
Then another thought struck her and the readings that both her father and her grandmother had chosen at their funerals made sense. Piper had said the identical choices suggested the two passages might mean something about their mother, Louisa, but Perdita realised it was not that at all. Not only had they been clues used by Granny Mary to guide Perdita to the letters she had written for the twins, they were also warnings about what was to come. Had they chosen the readings together as their last chance to alert Perdita and Piper to the dangers they faced?
The first reading had been a short excerpt from George Orwell’s classic book 1984 with its creepy vision of a society whose every move was monitored by the state. The main character, Winston Smith, worked for the Ministry of Truth, in a job that involved altering history on a daily basis in order to fit with the current propaganda of the government.
The second reading was from the book of Susannah, no longer in the main Bible but in the Apocrypha and it told the tale of a woman who nearly died due to the false testament of powerful men. The key was not the ultimate ending, it was the first line, Perdita
now realised, the line ‘and God knowest the secrets’.
The secrets.
Everywhere she turned there were secrets. And this one, if she were able to prove it, was the greatest of all. If she was right and the story she had been taught at school, the universally accepted version of these events, was in fact a fabrication, then how could any part of history be trusted? No wonder Randolph Connors had bugged them while they did the hard work for him. If he had this information he could use it to blackmail governments and seize who knew what level of extraordinary power? Her mind began to whirl with fear.
Follow the facts, she told herself, there’s no point panicking — you might be wrong. Follow the facts.
To her relief, the library was deserted as she and Kit barged through the door. Dropping his hand, she began searching the shelves. There were a number of books she needed, all of which she had in her own bookcase back at Marquess House. They were popular biographies and she was confident there would be copies of them in such a well-stocked library.
“Bingo,” she murmured.
“Are you going to tell me what we’re looking for?” asked Kit, standing in the middle of the room while she gathered her armful of books.
“One minute,” she said. “I need to check something because this theory is a bit wild.”
Piling the books on to one of the long library tables, Perdita began to sift through her treasure. If it was here and there was a reference leading her to the primary source, then she might have some evidence.
Five minutes later, her face white, she looked up at Kit from her growing pile of open reference books.
“Perds, what is it?”
“I’m scared, Kit,” she whispered and the voice she used did not sound like her own.
“Why? What have you found?”
“I think I’ve found the female heir,” she said, “and it changes everything.”
“More than discovering Catherine Howard wasn’t executed?” Kit was incredulous.
Perdita bit her lip and nodded.
The Elizabeth Tudor Conspiracy Page 20