The Tudor Plot

by Steve Berry

  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.

  “Amazing,” Goulding said. “Absolutely amazing. Some of this can be found in scattered references we have to Arthur in other writings. But here is a complete, contemporary, historical text. Finally, Arthur is no more the exclusive province of poets.”

  Goulding scanned more pages and read aloud.

  Warriors gathered in the Gorsedd woods, crowded around a slab of oak shaved flat by swords. Mead was drunk to continued victory. Arthur was there but did not participate. He stood alone and watched with silent satisfaction. One of the nobles approached him with a full tankard and he accepted the offer. When asked what troubled him, he said their fight was in vain. He foresaw a day when Saxons ruled their land. When Britons will speak in the rough Saxon language. He said a people without language is only half a nation. To be forced to learn another’s tongue was the worst badge of conquest. He suddenly stopped speaking. Cuckoos sang from their perches. A group of calves with their mothers grazed in a distant field. The harvest would soon be ready, he finally said. Winter was coming not only to the land, but to the people. His fondest desire was to be in the afterworld when that happened.

  “He sounds like a patriot,” Malone said.

  “He sounds human. A man fighting for a cause, like a million other revolutionaries that came before and after him. He fought Saxons, but eventually the Saxons, in 1066, battled invading Normans. Those Normans and Saxons became Englishmen and eventually repelled the Spanish and the Germans, surely echoing the same sentiment.”

  Malone glanced back toward the doorway. They needed to leave. The bodies still bothered him. Those men were killed for a reason, and he was beginning to understand why. “Any more interesting parts.”

  Goulding was already lifting more pages, scanning the prose.

  “Here’s a reference to Huail, Gildas’ brother.”

  Caw of Prydein possessed two sons of many. I being one, another was Huail ap Caw. Huail sought the love and affection of one of Arthur’s mistresses. A day occurred when Arthur was waiting for Huail at his mistress’ house. There was much discussion between the two before swords were drawn. Huail landed a blow to Arthur’s knee. To save himself the humiliation of being bested, Arthur agreed to a reconciliation provided Huail did not taunt the blow to others. Arthur returned to Caerhass and was nursed back to health, though he walked with a slight lameness whilst he lived. Much later Arthur fell in love with a woman in Rhuthun. He visited her dressed in the clothes of a girl. Huail was there and discovered him playing dance amongst the girls and recognized him from the lameness. “The dancing was good were it not for the knee,” Huail stated. Arthur heard the insult and knew the words were directed to him. Huail was later fetched to Arthur and questioned on the breaking of his pledge. He was then taken to the town market and his head cut off on a stone lying on the ground. Because of this deed the rock is called the Stone of Huail.

  Malone glanced again out the crypt’s open doorway.

  “The text goes on and notes that Gildas never particularly cared for his brother. He does not seem to fault Arthur for what happened, but he does note that people did not approve of the execution. This is not the vengeful historian I’ve read about in other accounts. And Arthur seems more tyrannical, fanatical. Given to impulse. Not to mention cross-dressing.”

  Which was fascinating. “You think that’s true?”

  “Hard to say. But, why not?”

  Why not, indeed.

  Goulding’s attention returned to the pages.

  “This passage talks of how Arthur fell at the Battle of Camlann. He gave orders that he be taken to Venodocia so that he might sojourn on the Isle of Avalon for the sake of peace and for the easing of his wounds.”

  “Where is Venodocia?” Malone asked.

  “It was later called Gwynedd. A kingdom that spread across North Wales. This confirms Avalon was in that locale.”

  On arriving in Avalon, Arthur became aware that his wounds were fatal. Three bishops were summoned to administer last rites. In time Arthur died, his body embalmed in balsam and myrrh. He was taken to a chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Its doorway would not accept the funeral pyre so the bishops performed the rites inside while the body waited out. A storm arrived driven by a thick mist. When the rain stopped and the mist cleared, Arthur’s body was gone. It was learned later that the nobles had met. There was much discussion concerning Arthur’s passage to the afterworld. Priests made the final decision. They knew a place where he may rest without risk of Saxon desecration. A faraway land with fire, ice, and huge creatures that dwelled in the sea. A place where it was possible to become close to God, where he would dwell until needed again.

  “Here,” Goulding said. “They put him here 1,500 years ago.”

  A few moments of silence passed, as they both realized where they were standing.

  “You think Yourstone found this place?” Goulding asked.

  “Yep. Then somebody else found it after him.”

  And he knew who.

  “The manuscript is priceless,” Goulding said. “More valuable than anything in this tomb.”

  “Words always are.”

  In the light he noticed an image on the front of the cumdach. He knelt and saw the outline of a man etched into the metal. He was thick-featured and cast a look of unbending determination. A scar ran from the hairline to the corner of the mouth. The
eyes, captured so well by the artist, seemed pools of anger. Something uncompromising could be seen in the expression, a message from the pinched lips and tight jaw that made clear there would never be subservience. Not from this man. The dress was the uniform of a Roman emperor—knee-length tunic and breeches, leather jerkin with metal-studded fringe across the abdomen, a cloak pinned at the shoulders with a brooch.

  “Celtic warriors aped Roman parade dress,” Goulding said.

  “Is it him?” he asked.

  “That we’ll never know. But this is good enough for me.” The professor pointed to the base of the reliquary where a simple label was inscribed.

  ARTVRIVS. SUPERBUS TYRANNUS.

  “Arthur. Outstanding Ruler.”

  “We have to leave,” he said. “Bring the book.”

  He stepped over to the wagon and retrieved two of the bronze bowls. He had Goulding lay the pages into one, then he clamped the other on top, binding them together with his belt. They then hustled through the doorway and carefully made their way back through the mountain, outside, following the power cables and lightbulbs.

  But the campsite was no more.

  All three tents were charred and burned.

  The equipment remained, the generator still working, but nothing now shielded anything from the weather, which had turned wet, bitter cold, and windy. The sun was gone, dreary and stained behind a mask of freezing mist.

  “What’s happening?” Goulding asked.

  “Let’s take a look for the Range Rover.”

  They hustled past the camp, toward where the vehicle was parked.

  An explosion rocked the silence.

  They whirled and saw the entrance to the cave being sealed by an avalanche of rock and debris.

  “Mr. Malone, what is this?”

  He knew. “No need to go look for the Rover. It’s gone.” And the shopkeeper back in the village wasn’t going to like that. Whoever killed the three men had used the time they’d spent exploring the tomb to ready this surprise.

  Apparently, they needed to die. Out here. Naturally. Which would not take long. Sure, they both wore coats and gloves, but prolonged exposure to these elements would mean certain death.

  His internal clock, which had never failed him, told him they’d been gone right at four hours.

  He yanked up the hood of his parka.

  Goulding did the same.

  “Keep those pages dry,” he said.

  “What are we going to do?”

  He led the way back to the clump of ash trees they’d used for cover earlier. As Goulding had first moved toward the camp, Malone had hesitated and laid his watch at the base of one of the trees.

  He bent down and retrieved it.

  “Standard issue for the Magellan Billet. Contains a GEOSAT transceiver. I told our pilot to wait four hours then start a search pattern.”

  He could see that Goulding was relieved.

  So was he, actually.

  “Who wants us dead?” the professor asked.

  “You’d be surprised.”

  In the distance he caught a glint of light in the dim sky. Slowly, the outline of the Sea King Commando chopper became clear.

  Right on time.

  “You knew there’d be trouble?” Goulding asked.

  “It was a good bet. But we had to come for a look.”

  He saw the professor agreed. “That we did. Thanks for bringing me along.”

  The helicopter settled nearby, atop more rhyolite formations. They ran through the wash of the blades, and he allowed Goulding to enter the passenger compartment first.

  He followed.

  But as he did, he hoped no one was watching.

  His newfound status as a corpse would come in handy.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Yourstone slammed the door to his study. The past few hours had been the worst of his life. He’d left Windsor and ridden back to London in silence, heading first to his office at Parliament. He’d felt safe there, though he realized that his time as an influential member of that body was drawing to a close.

  Nothing had gone right.

  And he couldn’t count on Peter Lyon.

  No. This problem was all his.

  He stepped to the bar and poured himself a whiskey, downing the drink in one swallow, then made himself another. This seemed like a good night to be roaring plastered.

  He reclined on the sofa.

  The door to the study opened and his son stormed into the room.

  “My God, Father. What have you done?”

  He was definitely not in the mood for prattling. “Leave me alone.”

  Andrew rounded the couch and faced him.

  He did not rise or even look up.

  “You cannot dismiss me.”

  He gulped another swallow of whisky. He was going to need fortification. “If I could only be so lucky.”

  “You have destroyed us. I spoke to Eleanor. She told me what happened with the queen.”

  “I no longer give a bloody damn what you think or care.”

  “Our title could be ended. My inheritance. Gone.”

  He downed the rest of the whiskey and rose for more.

  His inheritance.

  The moron.

  Yourstone had enjoyed the sweet nectar from a poisonous tree. He’d bedded a princess and plotted to overthrow two legitimate heirs to the Crown. He’d even come close to making his son king. What did any inheritance matter?

  He splashed more whiskey into the tumbler.

  “You seem unconcerned,” Andrew said. “Don’t you even realize what has happened?”

  He pushed past his son and settled back on the couch. He actually wished he had another mistress. Her flat would be an excellent place to spend the next few days. But he’d concentrated all his attention on Eleanor of late, trying desperately to impregnate her.

  “Leave me alone,” he said. “Go and bed one of your tarts. Pretend to be a man. I hope whoever she may be likes her men on the weak side.”

  He downed more whiskey.

  “You are an abomination. A disgusting monster.”

  He saluted his glass as the young man stood before him. “To me. The abomination.”

  He bottomed out the tumbler and enjoyed the feeling that burned a path to his stomach.

  His son rushed from the room.

  Good riddance.

  Malone stuffed a pistol between his belt and shirt. He wore a dark jacket, cords, and a brown shirt, his feet wrapped in black Nikes. He climbed from the car into a night made soft by a half-moon and a plenitude of stars. He was parked down the street from Nigel Yourstone’s Belgravia house. He’d waited until darkness before moving, having learned all about Victoria’s confrontation at Windsor with Eleanor and Yourstone. But if he’d guessed right, and he was certain he had, Yourstone was facing something far worse than a royal wrath.

  He shut the car door and walked down the sidewalk.

  Lights burned inside the residence.

  Yourstone enjoyed another whiskey and then decided on his course of action. It would be easy to simply take a revolver from his desk and blow his brains out. That was precisely what two great-uncles had done when faced with financial ruin 200 years ago. Every family had its share of weaklings, men and women remembered more for their shortcomings than their accomplishments. But he was not about to resign his fate to such dismal depths, always having his name preceded by poor, and succeeded by remember him, such a shame what happened, killing himself like that. He would not give anyone the satisfaction of feeling sorry for him. Instead, several million pounds waited on deposit in Swiss and Cayman Island accounts. Money he’d long ago siphoned from his tax obligations and businesses. Thanks to the Falklands War, the Argentines still hated anything and everything British. No extradition treaty existed between the two countries, no matter the crime.

  He could actually live a comfortable life there.

  He stepped to the desk, unlocked the lower left drawer, and found the passbooks for the two
foreign accounts. Upstairs in the bedroom safe was 50,000 pounds. Money he always kept on hand. He located the telephone directory and reached for the phone. A moment later a reservationist for British Airways came on the line and told him there was a flight to Caracas, Venezuela, leaving in five hours. From there he could grab a connection to Buenos Aires.

  Perfect.

  He booked a first-class ticket, then headed for the hallway and upstairs.

  Before reaching the study doors, the panels swung inward.

  Had his son returned?

  He hadn’t the time to dawdle over more of his nonsense. But the figure in the doorway was that of a silver-haired man, clean-shaven, dressed in a three-piece suit, his right hand gripping a peculiar walking stick, the left holding a revolver.

  Sir Thomas Mathews.

  “I heard your conversation with the reservationist. Argentina is lovely this time of year.”

  The spymaster blocked the doorway.

  “Why haven’t you answered my calls?” Yourstone asked. “I’ve tried reaching you since yesterday.”

  Mathews motioned with the gun. A sound suppressor extended the snout a few extra inches. “I thought we’d speak in person. Have a seat.”

  He decided not to argue and retreated back across the room, sitting behind his desk.

  Mathews casually examined the bookcases. “Your choice of reading is admirable. The classics, mythology, St. Augustine. Quite a variety.”

  “My ancestors were well versed.”

  The older man chuckled. “You aristocrats aggravate me so. I would rather deal with terrorists and fanatical avengers, like Peter Lyon, than the blue blood of old money.”

  “You didn’t seem to mind using me for your purposes.”

  “Quite right. I never minded a moment.”

  It had been Mathews who’d provided nearly all of the surveillance information on Richard. The Secret Intelligence Service possessed resources no one could match. Monitoring mobile phone calls had been easy for them. Keeping tabs on Richard simple. Secrecy a matter of course.