William fell to his knees and uttered the solemn words. Never would he let down his king.
1901
49
The fallout from the fire at Holbrooke & Sons combined with the revelations about Gilbert Barton’s murders kept the gossips of London well-sated, but I still felt unsatisfied. Colin and I had yet to unravel the meaning behind the scavenger hunt upon which Queen Victoria had started him. I had continued to postulate theories, none of which stood up to even the slightest scrutiny, and was beginning to wonder if this particular puzzle would never be solved. We were dissecting them all again, were sitting in the library, Colin with his whisky and I with my port.
“A lance, a stone, a chalice, and a sword,” he said. “It does put me to mind of the quest for the Holy Grail. The grail being the chalice, of course.”
“And there was the sword in a stone. But the lance?” I asked.
“A bleeding lance appears over the grail table in the Vulgate cycle, and later, when Galahad dies, his friends see his soul lifted into heaven, along with the grail and a lance.”
“Then the sword must represent King Arthur’s Excalibur,” I said.
“Not necessarily,” my husband replied. “There are many other swords in the various versions of the grail quest. Galahad, too, removes a sword from a stone, and finds another on a ship. One that only he can grip properly. Then there’s the sword broken into three pieces that he fixes—”
I felt a glimmer of excitement building in me. Why had I not thought of it before? “We are on the wrong track entirely,” I said. “Distracted by legend. Every message pertains to Henry V. And, if you recall, there is a sword—”
“—hanging among his funeral achievements in Westminster Abbey,” Colin finished for me. “Of course. How could I have been so bloody stupid?”
“You might have been a bit distracted, what with trying to solve four murders while keeping the king safe.”
He pulled me from my chair and within moments we were en route to the Abbey, where, standing in front of Henry V’s tomb, we saw a man, well past his prime, a remarkable gold brooch pinned to his overcoat.
“I knew you would find me at last, Hargreaves,” he said, shaking my husband’s hand. “You came in such a tear I feared I would not get here before you, but I had less distance to travel. My man rang the moment you left your house.”
I wondered if Davis was his man, but, no, that couldn’t be. Could it?
“I’m afraid I don’t understand your meaning, sir,” Colin said.
“You don’t need to.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is not important. May we speak privately?”
“I keep no secrets from my wife.”
The man lifted a monocle to his eye and examined me from head to toe. “Yes. She has proven useful. She followed the first clue, didn’t she?”
“I found the note in the Tower,” I said.
“Her Majesty never did quite approve of you, but even she had to admit your occasional usefulness.” He handed my husband an envelope, again bearing the Hargreaves coat of arms. Colin opened it and read aloud:
My hope does not wish for even one man more. Victory is not seen to be given on the basis of numbers. God is all-powerful. My cause is put into His hands. Here he pressed us down with disease. Being merciful, He will not let us be killed by these enemies. Let pious prayers be offered to Him.
“Another chronicle?” I asked.
Colin nodded. “Holinshed again. The one that inspired Shakespeare’s famous speech.”
“You are a well-educated man, Hargreaves,” the man said, “but that is not why she chose you.”
“Chose me?”
“To protect the king. Ever since the death of Henry V, a man has stood as silent and secret guardian of the sovereign. The Hammer of the Gauls knew his infant son, Henry VI, would be in a precarious position and he asked a trusted knight to watch over the boy. When that man grew too old for the task, the king selected another, and passed on the responsibility. And so it has gone over the centuries. Queen Victoria required more of us than any other monarch—there were five, each before me aging out of the job. And now, it is my turn to notify my own successor. Her Majesty chose you, Hargreaves, to look after her son.”
Colin shook his head, disbelief on his face, his voice sharp. “If you believe the king is in need of protecting, why did you not ask me before his mother died?”
“Hargreaves, Hargreaves, there is no need to get upset. I was on the case in the interim. In centuries past, other protectors put their successors through a series of tests. In the Middle Ages, these took the form of tournaments. When the Tudors reigned, a series of physical challenges had to be met. There was a charming phase during the Enlightenment when philosophical puzzles were part of the initiation. There is no need for such things now, particularly when it comes to a man like you, who has proven his worth again and again. But over the past century we have adopted the practice of staging a series of clues, just like those that led you to me today. A scavenger hunt for the chosen, if you will.”
“What would you have done if he hadn’t decoded them?” I asked.
“I never doubted he would and I am always right about such things.” He handed Colin a battered leather-bound book. “In here, you will find suggestions and advice from each of your predecessors. Some are frightfully out of date, of course, but don’t skip over any of them. The medieval illuminations are unparalleled in their beauty. And you must also have this.” He removed the pin from his coat.
Colin took it gently in his palm. “I’ve never seen its equal.” It was solid gold, approximately two inches high, less than half that wide, and fashioned to look like a blazing beacon, with flames of rubies rising from its top.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A medieval livery badge,” Colin said. “One of Henry V’s, is it not? The fire beacon.”
“Quite right,” the man said. “That king himself presented it, on his deathbed, to a knight he thought strong and honorable enough to protect his young son, who was less than a year old when he inherited the throne. You need not wear it all the time—to do so would be unfortunately conspicuous these days—but on certain occasions, you will find it useful.”
“What if I refuse?”
“My dear man, you will not. I know your sense of duty too well. When King Edward feels it is time, he will come to you and tell you who he chooses to take care of his heir, and you will do as I have done. Unless, of course, you decide staging a tournament would be more appropriate.” His lips curled. “You have the book. Beyond that, we do not give each other instructions. We would not be chosen if we required direction.” That said, he tipped his hat, smiled brightly at me, and disappeared into the shadows of the abbey.
“I—” Colin stood, his mouth open, and examined the livery badge. “I don’t know what to say.”
“A modern version of the medieval quest.” I sighed. “This means you’re all but a knight in shining armor. Just when I think you couldn’t be more attractive, you go and prove me wrong.”
“I’ve done nothing of the sort.” He slipped the badge into the inside pocket of his coat. “Home, my dear. I’ve not the slightest idea what to make of all this.”
Back in Park Lane, he poured himself a whisky in the library and studied the book he’d been given until Davis knocked on the door. “Sir, most sorry to disturb, but His Majesty—”
“Don’t bother to announce me, my good man.” Bertie pushed past my butler. “See here, Hargreaves, I knew nothing about any of this. Blasted inconvenient for you to have been distracted by such a lot of nonsense.” He turned to me and looked me over, grinning. “Lady Emily, you are more fetching than ever.”
“Er, thank you, Your Majesty,” I said, bobbing a curtsy.
“I’m not some child and am in need of no special protection, but I will say I’d far prefer to have you overseeing my safety than that nitwit Gale. Tedious man, always on about something or the other. Yo
u’ll do it for me, won’t you, old chap?”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Colin said. “It will be an honor.”
An honor he could not possibly have wanted. The cat screeched and the door to the library flew open. Henry dashed through it, Richard and Thomas not far behind.
“Is it true, Papa? Is the king really here?” Henry’s face was bright red.
“I certainly am, my good lad,” Bertie said. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
I had to admit that when Bertie was charming, there were few people more pleasant, and he was on his best behavior as he graciously accepted neat bows from each of my sons and then shook their hands.
“If you’re the king, why aren’t you wearing a crown?” Henry asked.
“They’re frightfully heavy, if you must know,” the king replied.
“If I were king, I wouldn’t care how heavy it was.” Henry crossed his arms with a defiant scowl. “I’d wear my crown all the time.”
“If you’re a good boy and do everything your mama asks of you, I shall take you to the Tower and let you try it on and see for yourself.”
Henry’s eyes widened and he murmured a reply I could hardly hear. Bertie looked rather pleased.
“Where’d you get that, Papa?” Tom asked, pointing to the golden fire beacon, which Colin had laid on his desk. “It’s Sir William’s badge, isn’t it?”
“Sir William’s?” I asked.
“Well, of course, it is,” Richard said. “Anyone could see that. It’s a perfect match to the one on the effigy.”
“Whose effigy?” I asked.
“Sir William Hargrave’s, naturally,” Tom said and turned to his other brother. “It’s my turn to be him next time we play Agincourt, and Richard will be the king, so don’t try anything underhanded, Henry.”
“I’m named for the king in question,” my recalcitrant son said. “It’s only fair that I get to be him whenever I want.”
“Sir William Hargrave?” I looked from my husband to my sons. “Is he—”
“The ancestor to whom Henry V, as recognition for valiant service at Agincourt, gave the land we now call Anglemore Park,” Colin said. “According to the book our mysterious friend gave me, he was the first to receive the fire beacon in exchange for royal service.”
“Well, then, it’s all in the family,” Bertie said. “Can’t argue with that, can we? Must be off. Much to do. Again, dashed sorry you weren’t enlightened about all this sooner. My mother preferred things that way. You’ll find I’m quite different.”
The boys clamored to follow him out, gasping when they saw the motorcar parked in front of our house.
“Papa,” Henry said. “If the king has one, surely, we can, too?”
I had never expected the unruliest of my boys to become a worthy ally.
1459
50
William felt his age more than ever these days, especially in the winter, despite the poultices Cecily concocted for him. Sometimes, when he was about to fall asleep, he entered into a state of half dream, and it felt for all the world that he was back at Agincourt. Now, sitting in his chamber at his house in Devonshire, he fingered the livery badge the old King Henry had given him, only two days before his infant son succeeded to the throne, and remembered the oath he had sworn. He had not expected the job to be as difficult as it proved, having assumed, at first, that the young king would not require his services once he’d reached the age of majority.
He had, however, and William had protected his sovereign from countless dangers, perceived and unperceived, always acting from the background, never letting anyone know what the old king had charged him to do. But now he had grown too aged, and he knew the time had come for him to give another the symbol of his position.
The young knight standing before him, a hint of confusion writ on his noble brow, would handle the task well—the tournament had proven that—and as William explained to him what would be required, the man nodded, but said not a word. William removed the fire beacon badge from his tunic and passed it to his successor.
“When the time comes, you will do as I have today,” he said. “And for all the centuries to come, whoever sits on the throne of England will remain safe from harm.”
1901
51
“You know, it hasn’t worked, this protection business,” I said, turning on my side to face my husband. I’d retired before him, but was not yet asleep when he slipped into our bed. “Not even in the beginning. Henry VI was murdered—”
“My dear, that is hardly the point,” Colin replied. “All any of us can do is our best to protect the sovereign. No one can absolutely guarantee the safety of any man, no matter what his position.”
“We’ve just lived through four murders that remind us of the deaths of kings,” I said. “Surely you can’t be required to—”
“It is done, Emily,” he said. “If you had hoped that Bertie’s, er, King Edward’s disdain for me would enable me to wriggle out of a role that no honorable man could refuse—”
“Oh, do stop.” I sighed. “I had only hoped that perhaps we could have a little break from adventure. Retire to Anglemore and watch the boys grow, far from any royal demands.”
“You would be bored silly in three days flat,” he said, and kissed me. “And think—Bertie has always had a high opinion of you. It may be that he will prove more open than his mother was to your, shall we say, interference in matters that require more than a modicum of discretion. Perhaps you, not I, will soon be the favorite agent of the Crown.” I confess, the idea perked me up, but before I could reply, my husband silenced me with another kiss. “First, though, you shall have to persuade me that I should step aside and let you vie for his favor. Can you make it worth my while?”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
My fascination with the Middle Ages took hold when I was quite young, probably seven years old, after seeing a reproduction of an illuminated image showing Christine de Pizan writing in her study, a small dog at her feet. Later, while at the University of Notre Dame, I was fortunate enough to study in the Medieval Institute under D’Arcy Jonathan Dacre Boulton and Dolores Warwick Frese. One of my fondest college memories was writing a paper for Dr. Boulton about the Carolingian queens, and it was a delight to get back to medieval sources for this novel. Beyond the writings of Christine de Pizan and Andreas Capellanus’s The Art of Courtly Love, I relied on The Paston Letters (a fantastic collection of correspondence written by three generations of an English family in the fifteenth century), Frances and Joseph Gies’s Marriage and Family in the Middle Ages, Jennifer Ward’s Women in Medieval Europe 1200–1500, and the extensive body of work done by Juliet Barker and Anne Curry about Henry V. In particular, I used Barker’s phenomenal books Agincourt: Henry V and the Battle that Made England and Conquest: The English Kingdom of France to guide my descriptions of Henry’s campaigns in France. The lectures I attended at the 2013 conference at Canterbury Cathedral commemorating the 600th anniversary of the death of Henry IV proved insightful and enlightening, especially Dr. Curry’s “Father and Son Revisited: Henry IV and Henry Prince of Wales,” and Dr. Ian Mortimer’s “Henry IV, his Reputation and Legacy.” Kevin Goodman’s article “The Strange Case of Henry V’s Wandering Wound” provided information about the wound and subsequent treatment Henry received at Shrewsbury. My son, Alexander Tyska, has proved himself again and again a historian of impeccable knowledge and was invaluable to me when I was researching this book. As always, with so many wonderful sources, any mistakes are my own.
I have long wanted to give readers a glimpse into the Hargreaves family history. Up to this volume of the series, all we knew was they had an ancestor who distinguished himself at Agincourt, earning the land that became Anglemore Park. I hope readers recognize some of Colin’s traits in both William and Cecily.
The appeal of English history and the Tower of London is undeniable. I could only resist it for so long before incorporating it into a novel, and am delighted to be abl
e to have Emily read Mrs. Braddon’s The Infidel. Moogy, the boy Jeremy befriends in the East End, is inspired by a photograph in Horace Warner’s Spitalfields Nippers. A collection of photographs he took of London’s poorest residents around the turn of the twentieth century, these pictures offer a profoundly moving look at children living in poverty. One of them, of a boy named Moogy Kelvin, haunted me from the moment I saw it, so I decided to put him in the book.
Finally, I can’t believe we’ve reached the end of the Victorian era. In 2003, when I wrote the first Emily book, And Only to Deceive, I harbored a hope that it might be the start of a long-running series, but it seemed like hubris to breathe that out loud. Now, all these years later, I owe my success to the marvelous readers who have supported me for a decade and beyond. I am more grateful than you can ever know and hope you’ll stick with me now that Emily and Colin are Edwardians.…
ALSO BY TASHA ALEXANDER
Death in St. Petersburg
A Terrible Beauty
The Adventuress
The Counterfeit Heiress
Behind the Shattered Glass
Death in the Floating City
A Crimson Warning
Dangerous to Know
Tears of Pearl
A Fatal Waltz
A Poisoned Season
And Only to Deceive
Elizabeth: The Golden Age
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TASHA ALEXANDER, the daughter of two philosophy professors, studied English literature and medieval history at the University of Notre Dame. She and her husband, novelist Andrew Grant, live on a ranch in southeastern Wyoming. Visit Tasha’s website at www.tashaalexander.com or follow her on Facebook and Twitter. Or sign up for email updates here.
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