Buried Crown

by Ally Sherrick

  PRAISE FOR BLACK POWDER

  Winner of the Historical Association Young Quills Award for Historical Fiction 2017

  This historical tale is steeped in intrigue, mystery and danger.

  BOOKTRUST

  . . . a wonderfully explosive adventure . . . I loved reading about (and rooting for) Tom, though I have to admit developing a rival soft spot for his mouse.

  JULIA GOLDING

  It’s a lively, entertaining and exciting read and will be of great interest to all children. Ally Sherrick presents her historical story in an appealing way and the characters and setting are realistically drawn.

  BERLIE DOHERTY

  With its constant reversals and twists and turns, Tom’s story is almost as complex as the plot and counter-plot of the Gunpowder Treason itself . . . The writing is lively and the pace never flags.

  HISTORICAL NOVEL SOCIETY

  The action is non-stop and exciting . . . the Jacobean world is convincingly conveyed and this adds depth to a tale that will be appreciated by able readers who enjoy historical fiction.

  THE SCHOOL LIBRARIAN

  The superbly descriptive language is an outstanding feature of the book, gripping the reader and really building up the drama and tension. Chicken House are spot-on with their summary – rip-roaring, historical adventure.

  PARENTS IN TOUCH

  A MESSAGE FROM CHICKEN HOUSE

  When I was young, I desperately wanted to be an archaeologist, digging up lost treasure – it seemed like a kind of magic . . . and perhaps it is. The Buried Crown is set during the darkest hour of the Second World War, but its buried treasure holds the power of an Anglo–Saxon king, and hope for Britain itself. Bury yourself in this irresistible tale of gold, adventurous deeds and slimy villains: the brilliant Ally Sherrick tells a story of how the power of the past can rush to our rescue!

  BARRY CUNNINGHAM

  Publisher

  Chicken House

  Contents

  Chapter 1: Berlin, Germany – Early July 1940

  Chapter 2: Suffolk, England – Friday 6 September 1940

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5: Saturday 7 September

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12: Sunday 8 September

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29: Early Morning – Monday 9 September

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  For my mum, who loved books.

  And my dad, the original George.

  With all my love.

  Also by Ally Sherrick

  Black Powder

  Berlin, Germany – Early July 1940

  SS-Hauptsturmführer Kurt Adler sat in the marble-tiled hallway waiting to be called. An hour had passed since he’d first arrived and still the pair of great ebony doors in front of him stayed firmly shut.

  He stared up at the steely-blue gaze of the man in the portrait hanging above them.

  He hadn’t been told exactly why the Führer wanted to see him – though it would be about the mission, of course. Top secret; the orders for it had come from the man himself. A flush of pride swept through him. It was a supreme honour to have been chosen to lead it and he would make a success of it – or die in the attempt.

  He glanced at the fair-haired young private sitting next to him. He was dressed in the uniform of the regular army, not SS. A pale-cheeked bookish type who looked like he’d be more at home in a library than on the battlefield; probably waiting to deliver a message when the secretary came back.

  The clock on the wall behind the desk chimed the hour. One . . . two . . . three. Adler’s stomach tightened. It couldn’t be long now, surely? He shot another look at the private. He had taken his cap off and was picking with nervous fingers at the silver-winged eagle badge sewn on the front of it. Adler clicked his tongue against his teeth. If he was the man’s commanding officer, he’d give him a piece of his mind.

  A barked order behind the doors, followed by the sound of hurrying footsteps, jolted him out of his thoughts. A few moments later, the right-hand door swung open and a small rat-faced man wearing the brown jacket and swastika armband of the Nazi party stepped out into the hall.

  Adler stiffened and sat to attention. The young soldier beside him did the same.

  The rat-faced man mopped a handkerchief across his sweaty forehead, then straightened his back and fixed Adler with a pair of quick, black eyes. ‘Hauptsturmführer Adler?’

  Adler jumped to his feet and gave a quick salute. ‘Yes, sir.’ He made to step forwards, but the rat-faced man’s attention had turned to the other man.

  ‘And you are Schütze Hans Ritter?’

  The private blinked and stood up, what little colour there was draining from his face. ‘Yes, I—’

  Adler gave him a sharp jab in the ribs. ‘Your cap, man!’

  Ritter fumbled the cap back on and arrowed his hand to the side of his head.

  The rat-faced man looked them both up and down then motioned to them with a flick of his fingers. ‘This way, and look sharp. His Excellency can only spare a few minutes. He is due at a medal-giving ceremony in half an hour.’

  Adler frowned. What could the Führer possibly want with someone like Ritter? He gave a small cough. ‘Surely there has been some mistake. This man here, he is not with me, he’s—’

  The rat-faced man narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you questioning the Führer?’

  Adler felt his cheeks grow warm. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Good, because if you are, it will be the last thing you do.’ He threw Adler a warning look and gestured for them to enter.

  Ritter made to go first, but Adler pushed him aside. ‘You should remember your place, Schütze Ritter. I am the superior officer here.’

  As Adler stepped through the door, he blinked and stared about him. The room was in semi-darkness, a set of black blinds drawn low across the row of long oblong windows to his left. A line of red flags hung in the spaces between, the familiar white circle and swastika emblem on each of them glowing dimly in the half-light. To the right of the two soldiers stood a great marble fireplace, a pair of carved gilt chairs and a table set in front of it. But it was the green glow at the far end of the room which drew Adler’s attention the most.

  It came from a lamp set on a black polished desk. As he peered past it, trying to make out what lay beyond, a dark shape shifted in the shadows.

  ‘Approach.’

  Adler stepped smartly forwards, his boots clicking against the marble floor tiles. The younger man held back for a moment, then followed suit.

  ‘Halt!’ The word ripped through the air like a pistol crack.

  The two soldiers jerked to a stop. Adler snapped his heels together, threw back his shoulders and forked his arm in the Nazi salute.

  ‘Heil, Mein Führer! SS-Hauptsturmführer Kurt Adler, and er . . . Schütze Hans Ritter, reporting for duty!’

  There was a creak of leather and a pale palm shot into view. It hung there for a moment then slid back into the shadows.

  Adler dropped his arm to his side and waited. Silence, except for the low ticking of a clock and Ritter’s hurried breathing. He frowned. Did the
Führer expect him to say something? He cleared his throat. ‘It is an honour to meet you, Mein Führer. I—’

  ‘Silence!’

  A man’s face appeared suddenly out of the gloom. He had the same oiled hair, neatly clipped black moustache and hard-set jaw as the portrait. But the eyes . . . A cold shiver slid across the back of Adler’s neck. The eyes were different. Fiercer; more penetrating. Eyes that could light a fire in you. Or freeze your blood to ice.

  Adler swallowed and forced himself to meet their gaze.

  ‘You know why you are here?’

  Adler gave a clipped nod. ‘Yes, Mein Führer.’

  ‘Good.’ The Führer swept a hand across his forehead and gave a sharp cough. ‘The English and their so-called allies thought they could stop us from taking France. But they were wrong.’ He hammered the desk with his fist as he spoke the last word.

  Ritter jumped, but Adler gritted his teeth and stood his ground.

  The Führer pulled back his chair and got to his feet. ‘Now we will take the war to them.’ He stalked round the desk and came to stand in front of them, shoulders back, arms thrust behind him. He fixed them with an ice-cold stare. ‘This mission will deal them a fatal blow. A blow from which they will never recover. Then they will be forced to recognize the truth: that our glorious Third Reich reigns supreme.’

  Adler drew himself to attention again. ‘Yes, Mein Führer! But . . .’ He licked his lips. ‘But if I may be so bold, what is this man doing here?’ He shot Ritter a look of contempt.

  The Führer frowned. ‘You and your men have been hand-picked for your skills operating undercover in the field. But Schütze Ritter has been selected for quite another reason.’ He threw the private a grim smile.

  The younger man swallowed and shifted nervously under the Führer’s steely gaze.

  The Führer’s eyes swivelled back to Adler. ‘As you may know, since I became Chancellor of our beloved Fatherland, I have made it my business to collect treasures. Treasures to glorify the Reich.’

  Adler gave a quick nod. He had heard about the Führer’s love of precious artefacts – how he had assigned a special force of men to track them down from the monasteries, museums and castles of the occupied territories and deliver them to a secret bunker to which only he and his most trusted ministers had the key.

  The Führer’s harsh tones snapped him back to the room. ‘My collection is almost complete. But there is one treasure not yet in it. One I desire above all others. And I am told that Ritter here knows all about it. Isn’t that so, Ritter?’ He turned and locked his eyes back on the younger man’s face.

  Ritter blinked and took a step backwards. ‘You mean . . . the dragon-headed crown? But . . . but how do you—’

  The Führer’s expression darkened. ‘Remember who I am, soldier!’ He jabbed a finger at the shadowy outline of a giant eagle hanging on the wall behind him. ‘Like the emblem of our great nation, I have eyes and ears everywhere.’

  Adler gave Ritter a haughty stare. ‘I apologize, Mein Führer. Schütze Ritter should know better than to interrupt. But forgive me, I don’t quite see what this crown has to do with our mission?’

  The Führer’s eyes shrank to two cold blue chips. He took a step forwards and jerked up a hand as if to strike him. Adler flinched. The Führer snorted. Lowering it again, he flicked his gaze back to Ritter.

  ‘You have heard of the legend attached to it, Schütze Ritter?’

  Ritter’s face paled. ‘Yes, Mein Führer. That . . . that whoever has the crown will rule the kingdom.’

  The Führer’s eyes glittered with a fiery blue light. ‘Precisely!’

  Adler raised his eyebrows. Surely the Führer didn’t believe in such things?

  The Führer’s jaw tightened. ‘Is something troubling you, Hauptsturmführer?’

  ‘Well . . . I . . . er . . .’ Adler cleared his throat. ‘If I may be so bold, Mein Führer. Such legends . . . aren’t they just stories?’

  Two red spots of anger appeared on the Führer’s pale fleshy cheeks. ‘Not this one.’

  Adler curled up his fingers, bracing himself for the tongue-lashing that would surely follow.

  But it didn’t come.

  Instead, the Führer’s face had taken on a mysterious, faraway look. He drew in a breath and began to pace up and down in front of them.

  ‘The crown belongs to a great line of ancient kings. The original kings of England. Once it is mine’ – he stopped and turned to face them, eyes sparking with fresh blue fire – ‘England will become mine too, and the Third Reich will control the greatest empire in the world. That is our destiny.’ He let his last words hang in the air. Then, taking a quick breath, he focused his gaze back on Adler. ‘Do you understand now why I must have the crown, Hauptsturmführer?’

  Adler straightened his back and clicked his heels together. ‘Yes, Mein Führer. Of course, Mein Führer.’

  The Führer tilted his head a fraction as if satisfied by Adler’s answer, then frowned and narrowed his eyes. ‘But it must be our secret. Your mission’s original objective still stands. The crown is what the English might call “the icing on the cake”.’

  ‘Yes, Mein Führer.’ Adler nudged his comrade. The two soldiers drew themselves to their full height and gave another salute.

  ‘Now, go and prepare. You have two months. And remember, the future of the German Reich depends on your success.’ The Führer’s lips pressed into a thin white line.

  A bead of sweat trickled down the side of Adler’s left cheek. He clenched his jaw and jerked back his head. ‘We won’t fail you, Mein Führer. Of that you can be assured.’

  ‘Good. Because if you do, I need not remind you of the consequences . . .’ The Führer shot them both one last skewering look, then swung round and strode back to his desk.

  The two men saluted. Spinning on their heels, they marched back past the fireplace towards the doors.

  As they reached them, Adler glanced quickly over his shoulder. But the Führer had melted into the shadows and the only thing visible now was the eagle: black eyes glittering; wings and claws outstretched.

  Watching. Waiting. Preparing to strike.

  Suffolk, England – Friday 6 September 1940

  George was picking stones out of the trenches in the potato field when he heard the plane. He jumped up and scanned the sky, shielding his eyes against the sun’s glare.

  He couldn’t see it first off, but then he spotted it, climbing up from the horizon into the clear blue space overhead. A Spitfire. He’d know the shape of those wings anywhere. And the sound of the engine too. The low hum which built to a blood-tingling roar as it approached.

  It’d be from the local airbase: the one Charlie was stationed at. ’Course Charlie was still in training at the moment; but the minute he was finished he’d be up there fighting alongside the best of ’em. In a Spitfire too with any luck, though he didn’t know for definite because Charlie hadn’t been allowed to say.

  George was worried for him, but he couldn’t help being proud too. His own brother, a sergeant in the RAF. What would Mum and Dad have made of that? As their faces swam into view, he felt the familiar ache in his chest. He blinked and fixed his eyes back on the plane. For a moment, as it rose higher still, he was up there with it, swooping and soaring like a hawk. But then, as the Spitfire dipped its nose and levelled out, another noise cut through the air – a high-pitched saw, like the sound of an angry wasp.

  George swung round. A second plane was approaching. Lower down than the first and flying fast. Not a Spitfire. Not making that noise. A Hurricane, maybe? He scrunched his eyes. From this distance, it was hard to say . . .

  He turned back to look at the Spitfire. It was climbing again now, engine a distant growl, wings shining silver in the sunlight. Then, as the other plane flew beneath it, the Spitfire tipped on its side and arced down. For a moment, George thought it was play-fighting and would pull up short. But it kept on coming, the noise from its engine tearing through him, sending hot an
d cold shivers up and down his spine.

  And then it opened fire.

  Rat-tat-tat-a-tat! Rat-tat-tat-a-tat!

  As the target pulled away sharply, George spotted the black swastika painted on its tail. It was a Messerschmitt 109. He could see that now. A dogfight! And here he was – George Penny – with a grandstand view.

  The Spitfire tore after the enemy fighter and fired again, leaving a trail of white smoke behind it. The Messerschmitt swerved to avoid it. George held his breath, waiting for it to turn back and fight. But it didn’t. Instead, it took off back in the direction it had come. As he watched it disappear from view, there was a roar above him. The Spitfire did a victory loop and tipped its wings. George waved at it and punched the air. Old Hitler might have scored one against them at Dunkirk, but if he had thought that was the end of things, he hadn’t bargained for the RAF. They’d been stopping the Jerries up in the skies now for nearly two months!

  A door banged in the distance. George’s heart lurched. Bill Jarvis. It must be. He shot a look over his shoulder. There was no sign of him yet. He glanced down at the half-full bucket of stones. Better get back to work. Last time Jarvis had caught him slacking, he’d given him such a beating he hadn’t been able to sit down for a week.

  He gritted his teeth. If only Charlie knew what it was really like here . . . but there’d been no way of telling him. He couldn’t send him a letter, because Jarvis had stolen the money Charlie had given him the day he’d arrived. And then Charlie had written and said all leave had been cancelled. Anyway, he didn’t want to make a fuss. Not after Charlie had gone to so much trouble to find him somewhere to stay in the first place.

  He looked back up, hoping to catch one final glimpse of the Spitfire before it headed back to base. It was still up there, flying high above him. But now two more black shapes had appeared in the sky to its right. Fighters. Enemy ones – and bearing down fast.

  ‘Watch out!’ He jumped up and down, waving and pointing frantically, but it was no use. The pilot was never going to see him from up there.