The Tudor Plot: A Cotton Malone Novella (6 page)

“How else would we ever know what happens there?”

“I thought you were responsible for foreign matters. MI5 handles the domestic stuff.”

“That depends on the nature of that
stuff
.”

Mathews motioned to Goulding, who brought up another photo of the cauldron on a computer screen.

But he wanted to know, “Have you spoken with Stephanie?”

Mathews shook his head. “And neither did she show me the courtesy of contacting me before dispatching you.”

“More spies? With more information?”

“A necessity that has allowed me to survive in this business for a long time.”

Mathews was legendary. Only sixteen men had led Great Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, responsible for all foreign intelligence matters since the start of the 20th century. Mathews was the latest and the longest. A Cold War veteran. Feared by the Soviets. Respected by Washington. And though Malone had worked with MI6 several times before, never had the head man himself been involved.

Which spoke volumes.

“Tell him,” Mathews said to their host, motioning with his cane.

“This cauldron once occupied a prominent position at a pagan altar,” Goulding said. “There are many similar ones in museums, but this is a particularly well-preserved specimen. These bowls served a dual purpose.”

The professor’s finger touched the screen.

“These plates are our first history books. I’ve seen others that record a battle or some catastrophic occurrence. This one details the end of a ruler’s reign.”

Goulding traced the color image on the screen with his index finger. “Look here. The king dies in battle. Then his warriors pay tribute to him with trumpets and ceremony. Even the animals are saddened by his death.”

The academician clicked on a smaller image at the right side of the screen, and an enlarged picture of one of the etched panels appeared.

“This plate is the key,” Mathews said. “It’s the one missing off the bowl. The one currently located in the Icelandic National Museum in Reykjavik. By itself it’s meaningless. But together, with the rest of the images, the story becomes complete.”

Malone remembered what William had written. “And since Yourstone photographed that Iceland image, and has the actual cauldron, that means he has all of the pieces to the puzzle.”

“Which is why you and I are talking,” Mathews said.

Then he realized. “I assume my visit to Yourstone created a problem?”

“An understatement, but accurate. It jeopardized over a year’s worth of covert surveillance.”

Which explained why the head man was here.

Goulding stood from the computer and stepped across the office to a row of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, whose shelves sagged from their load. He bent and retrieved a leather-bound volume on the bottom row, gently parting its pages. After a moment of careful leafing he said, “Let me read you something. I think it will explain things clearly.”

In the winter of 1191 at Glastonbury Abbey, in the churchyard of St. Dunstan, near the south door, a white-curtained pavilion was erected between two stone markers shaped like pyramids. The abbot of Glastonbury, Henry de Sully, was in charge of the construction. Two years earlier a message had arrived from Henry II, bestowing information deemed so sacred that the king’s offspring were not to be informed. The king had learned the location of Arthur’s grave and his personal friend, Ralph FitzStephen, then in charge of Glastonbury Abbey, had passed the information to Abbot de Sully after Henry died in July 1189
.

Why de Sully paused two seasons before acting is unknown. Perhaps his cautious personality and desire to please Richard, Henry’s son, the monarch who appointed him to such an exalted position, played a role in his decision. Nevertheless, sometime in 1191, de Sully finally ordered that digging should begin. It took several days before, eight feet down in thick soil, a heavy stone slab was encountered. A full week was needed to raise the monolith from the hole. On the underside of the stone a cavity was discovered in which had been placed a leaden cross. It was an unusual design, the top curved, sides flared at rounded angles. Upon the cross was etched: H
ERE IN THE ISLE OF
A
VALON LIES BURIED THE RENOWNED
A
RTHUR WITH
G
UINEVERE HIS SECOND WIFE
. The script was ancient, in a text not used for many generations, and had been purposefully placed inward, facing the stone
.

The discovery motivated more digging and it was another eight feet down before a rough coffin, formed like a dugout canoe from a hollowed oak bole, was discovered. Two-thirds of its inside contained the bones of a man. The skull was large and impressive, many wounds were clear, all mended save for one and the diggers concluded the immense gash had been the cause of death. One of the monks removed a shinbone from the grave and held it up to the tallest man there. It stretched a full three inches above the knee, meaning that whoever filled the grave was a man due respect. In the remaining one-third of the bole were the remains of a woman. A tress of hair, plaited and coiled, still possessed of blond color, lay among the bones. One of the monks, a silly, rash, and imprudent fellow, grabbed for it and the bundle disintegrated into dust. Female hair had always been a snare for the feeble-minded, although it is said that those with strength of purpose can resist its allure
.

The monks interpreted the event as an omen
.

Malone said,
“A mystery to the world, a grave for Arthur.”

Goulding smiled. “From an old Welsh poem. And quite apt.”

“Are you saying Arthur was buried at Glastonbury Abbey and his grave discovered in 1191?”

Goulding gently laid the open book on the corner of the desk. “A grave was excavated in 1191 and the bones of a man and woman were found. That much history accepts, since there are at least five separate accounts of what happened during the exhumation. They differ in detail, but the general thrust is similar. The bodies were sunk deep in the ground, which was unusual for graves at the time. As you might expect, tools then were not the finest, and digging deep would have been difficult. But Arthur was the sworn enemy of the Saxons. He almost succeeded in stopping their steady intrusion over Britain. The Saxons would have relished in ravaging his grave, so burying him deep made sense.”

“You believe Arthur to be an actual historical figure?” he asked.

“Without a doubt. He was a Celt who fought invading Saxons. The best that can be determined is that he lived in the later part of the 6th century, dying around 537 to 542
CE
.”

“He was a king?” he asked.

“There was no such concept then. It would be another 300 years before some semblance of kingship, as we know it, formed. Arthur was
Dux Bellorum
. Battle Leader. A warrior. He fought twelve battles we know of. Supposedly, after the Battle of Camlann he was carried off by his cousin, Morgan, to the Isle of Avalon, where his wounds were mended. But, in fact, he died and was buried there.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Malone asked.

Goulding motioned to the screen. “The answer is here. The plates on the bowl depict exactly what happened. There is a wattle-and-daub church in the background, which I recognize as the Old Church at Glastonbury. This cauldron is a record of those events.”

Yourstone followed a contingent from the House of Lords into the queen’s audience chamber. Eight of the leadership had been summoned for a hastily arranged meeting, the subject of which was not revealed, only that Victoria needed to speak with a few of the lords.

Throughout history it had been the lords who rose to the Crown’s defense, especially when the Commons tried to cut the monarch’s power. From the 16th to the latter part of the 20th century the English monarchy had enjoyed an almost unprecedented popularity. The downfall started with Victoria’s father, who’d made no secret that he never wanted to be king. Three decades had passed since he died, and the nation had been blessed with his daughter, a woman possessed of a spirited attitude that had won back the public.

But the explosive recklessness of her eldest son had resurrected all that had once been bad, and a decade of concentrated effort on his part had merely aggravated the wound. If all went according to plan, by the end of next week Eleanor would be queen of England, Yourstone’s son her prince, their child to become the first Yourstone monarch. He could only hope it was a boy—which would be a sure sign that what he’d labored so hard to achieve possessed a divine stamp.

That male would rule as Arthur II.

But even if a girl were produced, no matter. She would bear the regal label of Guinevere. There would be no more Elizabeths, Annes, Marys, or Victorias. No Saxe-Coburg names. And the German connection with the British throne would forever be severed. Yourstone children would take Celtic and Brit names. They would also emphasize their Norman heritage.

Arthur or Guinevere.

Either one a Yourstone.

The lords completed their entrance and sat where directed by uniformed footmen. Victoria was already perched at the head of an elongated table that shone under the brilliance of a Bohemian chandelier. The queen was dressed in a light blue suit, a triple string of pearls encircling her neck. Her face cast a tired expression, but she sat straight in the chair, which appeared to take effort. Apparently, the medical reports on the extent of the Parkinson’s were to be believed.

“Please, my lords, be comfortable and let us talk for a few moments,” the queen said.

Prince James stood behind his wife, a stump of a man whose Scottish ancestry showed in his every word and action. Some likened him to John Brown, the Scotsman who consoled the first Victoria in the latter part of the 19th century after her husband, the first Albert, died. Both were stubborn, determined men, but unlike Brown, James was extremely popular and the press treated him with deference. As far as anyone knew—and Yourstone had delved deeply—he’d always been monogamous. His only fault was a passion for horse racing, something he and Victoria shared.

“I appreciate your appearance on short notice,” the queen said. “Ordinarily, I would not concern myself with what someone may say about myself or my family. I have lived a long life and learned that one cannot be queen and have a sensitive nature. But I require counsel and hope you might oblige me by offering some.”

Yourstone watched Victoria closely. Though ill, she was still the woman of three decades ago who’d charmed the nation with her civility and poise.

“My lord Yourstone.”

The sound of his name caught him by surprise.

His gaze found the queen.

“I listened earlier in gratitude at your defense of the Crown. But I also caught your warnings. I am sorry my son places us all in such difficult positions.”

“I, too, am a father and understand the anguish children can sometimes cause.”

“Yet neither of our sons is a child. They are grown men who should know how to conduct themselves.”

“And, by the grace of God, my son has matured into a fine man. He makes your daughter quite happy.”

“For which my husband and I are grateful.”

Yourstone caught James’ stare as the Scotsman stood behind his wife. Though the queen had ignored his coy slight, the prince had not. No appreciation cast from his stern expression.

“Tell me, Lord Yourstone,” Victoria said, “does Lord Bryce’s attempt to abolish the monarchy stand any chance of passage?”

“There are many in the Commons who feel abolition would be a sign of progress. Similar to when the House of Lords was modified a few years ago. Many felt that change would be viewed favorably.”

His reminder, he knew, would fuel resentment in the men who sat around the table. A change to a Labour government had brought a call for reform to the House of Lords. Its 1,000-plus membership, heavily dependent on family for position, had evolved into an anachronism. So most of the hereditary seats were abolished and the Lords’ membership reduced to a workable number. Victoria had wholeheartedly supported the change, one of those rare occasions when she interjected herself into the political process, and many of the gentry harbored ill will for her interference.

“That does not answer my question,” Victoria said, her voice suddenly sharp. Apparently, she had sensed both jabs. “Does Lord Bryce’s move
possess
political strength?”

“I believe it does.”

“Explain yourself,” James said.

The prince’s deep baritone seemed to shake the walls.

Yourstone cautioned himself to remain calm. Appearances were everything. Especially now. “Richard has inflicted enormous damage. You certainly realize that. The ministers are tired of him. The people are tired of him. I’m sorry, but his becoming king would be viewed as a national disgrace. The people speak of him and your father as one.”

He realized that he was openly insulting Victoria’s father, but James had asked for an explanation.

“My father had no desire to be king,” Victoria said. “But he did his duty to the day he died.”

“That is not enough anymore. Your father ruled at a time when the press was restrained and respect was shown the monarchy. He was allowed many liberties. We live in an age of instant communication. Newspapers, television shows, mobile phones, countless websites. They all require constant content. Millions of people are more than willing to supply that content. Most of which is offered free. To survive such an informational glut, a monarch must be extraordinary. Beyond reproach. Like yourself. No one would dare attack Your Majesty, but you have given no one cause or reason.”

“Except you, Lord Yourstone. You attacked me. This morning.”

“I said nothing derogatory about Your Majesty.”

“You insulted my family, which is the same thing.”

“I merely spoke the truth. As, I assume, you want us all to do. We did not create this problem.”

Another poke at Richard’s parentage.

Victoria shifted slightly in the chair, which seemed to calm the tremors in her hands. He realized she would never publicly disparage a member of her family, no matter what he or she may have done. Royals always defended royals. But he also knew, from Eleanor, that privately the queen and prince were furious with Richard. So he said, “The Prince of Wales simply has yet to realize that he will one day be king. That, to me, is his greatest fault.”