The Tudor Plot: A Cotton Malone Novella (9 page)

And never had he dealt with such a dangerous personality. He’d located Lyon through intermediaries, and initially the terrorist had not been interested. That was, of course, before his associates were captured and Great Britain agreed to try them in an international court. It had been Lyon who’d reinstituted contact, the only condition to his involvement being that everything Yourstone planned must coincide with the trial. That criterion had been acceptable since it would further divert blame.

He glanced at his watch: 4:05
P.M.

“We’re only a few hours away. What’s happening now is out of our hands.”

Malone waited for an explanation.

“You’ve entered this fight at the last minute,” Mathews said. “I know the challenge that presents. But you’re a pro, and it may be fortuitous for us all that you are here. This entire matter is most delicate.”

“You’re aware that Princess Eleanor is involved?”

“Of course. She is in league with Nigel Yourstone. In fact, it is much worse than the palace realizes. Yourstone and the princess are lovers.”

That shocked him.

“Yourstone’s son is sterile. So the father is making sure there will be a proper blood heir.”

“How does Yourstone plan to murder Albert?”

“He doesn’t. But Peter Lyon does. And in a grand style. A missile, fired at the Tower of London. With Albert there.”

All of which fit Lyon’s grandiose personality. His people were being tried on British soil, and he would make sure the entire nation understood that error.

“Lyon wants to strike a public blow. Yourstone and Princess Eleanor want the second in line for the throne dead. Of course, they want no blame for that. So they made a most diabolical arrangement.”

Lyon was one of the world’s premier arms dealers. Procuring a surface-to-surface guided missile would not be a problem.

“And you kept all of this to yourself?”

“I head the Secret Intelligence Service. As you noted back at the college, my jurisdiction lies outside this country. MI5 handles internal matters.”

“Has MI5 been alerted?”

Mathews shook his head. “I couldn’t risk it. They are not the most reliable of people. Besides, Peter Lyon is an international matter and I want him. Now I have him. My people have worked hard to keep this contained. We just need to finish it.”

“
We
?”

“A tracking device has been smuggled into the Tower, one the missile will use for guidance. I need you to locate that device.”

“Why not just stop the missile before it fires?”

“I will do that. We have the launch point under surveillance. There is no danger of any missile leaving that locale and striking Albert. But we need to implicate the right culprits in this vengeful plot.”

“You don’t have agents who can handle that?”

“None of my people was recruited by the queen. You were. The palace apparently trusts you, so you are the logical choice to reveal the conspirators.”

“The queen already suspects Yourstone and her daughter.”

“And she is correct. But proof must be uncovered.”

He understood. “And my doing it also insulates you.”

“Exactly. By law, I should not be involved. Luckily, here I am.”

He wasn’t exactly sure of that conclusion, but didn’t argue. “Where is the proof?”

“Now, that’s the most interesting part.”

And as the chopper continued flying toward London, he listened while Mathews explained.

Yourstone followed the cortege into the ground floor of the Wellington Barracks. In a few days the building would be packed with tourists, all eager to view the royal regalia of crowns, scepters, orbs, and swords proudly displayed behind bulletproof glass. Today the crowds were absent, replaced by a small contingent of royal family members taking advantage of the first opportunity to view the newly constructed Jewel House before it was formally opened to the public.

Eleanor walked beside him, her dress a pale blue bouclé, the jacket similar with a gray velvet collar. Hats were her trademark, and she’d chosen a wide-brimmed lattice straw design. Her no-frills wardrobe brought both compliments and complaints. The press praised her frugality, the fashion columnists harangued her lack of style. But no one could accuse her of extravagance.

“This is quite a spectacle,” she whispered. “It will be fine pomp and circumstance for the masses.”

During World War II her grandfather had ordered the crown jewels moved from the nearby Wakefield Tower to an underground chamber beneath the Waterloo Barracks. There a magnificent star-shaped case was constructed and elaborately lit to showcase one of the last sets of crown jewels left in the world. But the swarm of visitors that flocked each year to view the display had proven too much for the cramped chamber, and Victoria had commissioned a larger location back at ground level. It had taken two years to remodel an old barracks into a state-of-the-art vault that not only ensured security but also provided a dazzling spectacle.

Evening sunshine from outside was replaced by a cool semi-darkness. A wide corridor led forward, equipped with a conveyor-belt walkway designed to keep viewers from lingering. The cases themselves were illuminated with a combination of halogen floods and miniature lasers. He’d never seen the collection in such vivid color, and the effect was remarkable. Today the conveyor belt was still and the twenty or so guests strolled about, taking their time. Eleanor had come to represent her mother, her appearance limited to this tour, as other duties would shortly take her to North London and Greenwich. Her causes varied from animal rights to organizations for the disabled to environmental concerns. Richard tended to draw the industrial plant openings, state visits, and trade association gatherings.

“The ceremony will begin promptly at 7:00
P.M.
,” an attendant reminded everyone. “We need you outside around 6:30. Until then, please enjoy the display.”

Eleanor led the way as they drifted to where her nephew, Albert, stood alone admiring the crowns.

“One of those will someday be on your head,” she said as they approached.

The others were studying more of the regalia in other cases.

“The thought is frightening,” the young man said.

Albert Saxe-Coburg was tall, with squared shoulders, his legs and arms in nearly perfect proportion to a sturdy frame. A thick patch of hair drew attention to eyes that seemed to flash a dreamy light. He’d acquired most of his physical features from his mother, who was, though batty, incredibly beautiful. Virtually no Saxe-Coburg feature could be found in his nose, mouth, or eyes, and only the pronounced oval skull and tiny ears could be credited to his father. He was well educated, an Eton scholar, versed in the classics and possessed of an Oxford degree. His interests were simple, among them chess and Scrabble. A procession of nannies, tutors, and sporting instructors contributed to his upbringing and helped instill a sense of conscience. He was soft-spoken and chose his words with great care. Yourstone could recall no press report ever speaking ill about him. Born to privilege, educated with purpose, and existing in a life devoid of privacy, this young man had managed to remain both sane and immensely popular.

Yourstone stared through the polished glass a few feet away at the 400-year-old St. Edward’s Crown. He envisioned the Archbishop of Canterbury, who stood on the other side of the room admiring the royal scepters, reverently placing that crown onto Eleanor’s head. Cheers would ring as echoes of
God save the queen
bounced from the walls of Westminster Abbey.

“You will do us proud,” Eleanor told her nephew.

The young man smiled at her. “You are a treasure, Aunt Ellie.” Protocol would never allow him to speak such intimacies outside the immediate family. “I see why Father loves you so.”

“Your father is a troubled man. He does not want to be king.”

“I’m afraid you are right.”

“But he’s lucky to have such a worthy son.”

Yourstone’s gaze fixed on the smaller Imperial Crown. Once Eleanor’s coronation ended, with her having taken Holy Communion and withdrawing to an adjacent chapel, he could envision her changing into velvet robes, the heavier St. Edward’s Crown replaced with this lighter version. Her great-great-great-grandmother Victoria I had been a finicky sort, much like herself, and ordered its creation, an accommodation for comfort demanded by her petite size and spare frame.

Albert exhaled a short breath and continued to stare at the display. “Father must deal with his own demons. It’s not my place to interfere.”

“Nor mine, but I have told him to let these crowns pass him by, directly to you.”

The young man’s face tightened, but he did not look at her. “Bad advice, Aunt Ellie.”

“You’re more ready than he will ever be.” She paused a moment. “And I can say that because I am his sister.”

People began edging toward the exit. The ceremony dedicating the new Jewel House would begin shortly outside on the Tower Green. The Archbishop of Canterbury ambled toward them. He was a short, stern-faced man with a receding hairline.

“This is truly a wonder,” the prelate said.

Albert nodded. “Quite right. The designers have done the nation proud.”

“Such a shame these are merely recent creations. What a sight the originals and jewels must have been.”

What the archbishop observed was true. Nearly everything surrounding them had been crafted in the 19th century or later, at a time when the Crown was forced to rely on wealth and ceremony to generate respect.

“Perhaps the monarchy did itself a great disservice when it chose luxury over power,” Yourstone said.

The archbishop shook his head. “If I recall, Parliament did not give much choice. The time of absolute rule had ended.”

“Nothing ever ends,” he made clear.

The archbishop smiled. “This nation has endured much. These jewels are just one testament to its greatness.”

He wasn’t in the mood for abstractness. “The true test of a monarch is the ability to garner subjects’ respect—without the need for props. It should not be necessary to don a robe, or wear a crown, for the people to offer loyalty. They should do that because a monarch proves worthy of their affection. The sole interest and desire of any king or queen is making sure the nation is well.”

He watched as Albert considered what had been said. This Saxe-Coburg was clearly a product of the modern age. He’d bypassed the customary tour in the military that most royal offspring endured, choosing graduate studies in politics and literature. The time of a king leading troops into battle had long passed. The 21st century demanded far more skills than filling out a uniform, and Albert was intuitive enough to realize that fact. He was the
choicest of the litter
, as
The Times
once described him.
If not born to royalty he would have been a natural politician
, another observer had written.

And he agreed.

Which made this young man most dangerous.

He casually glanced at his watch. “I believe you are needed on the Tower Green.”

Albert nodded, donning the grin photographers had come to love. “Quite right. Shall we exit.”

They said their goodbyes to the archbishop, then left the Jewel House.

Yourstone was not staying for the ceremony, either. He’d come only to make sure that all was in place. So he watched as the royal contingent headed away, then he followed the pavement around the magnificent White Tower toward one of the gates leading out. A small reviewing stand had been constructed on the Tower Green, near the spot where privileged executions once took place. Two of Henry VIII’s wives lost their heads there, as had Lady Jane Grey, the seventeen-year-old who ruled for nine days as queen until Mary, Henry VIII’s daughter, had her head removed, too.

English history had turned on this spot.

As it would today.

Eleanor accompanied Albert. But she would depart in a few minutes, too.

Before 7:00
P.M.

His gaze focused on the White Tower. Its 100-foot walls of Kentish and Caen stone formed an uneven quadrilateral, defended on the corners by three square towers and a round one. Once the stone had been whitewashed, giving the building its name, but now it glistened a golden brown with an elegance that perpetual care assured. High above, the Union Jack fluttered in a light breeze. This ancient citadel was the symbol of the nation.

A place of pride and honor.

He walked through the exit gate and headed toward his waiting car.

Acolytes continued to prepare the reviewing stand. A small contingent of press was ready and waiting, including television cameras.

The royals had begun to take their seats.

His gaze shifted from the White Tower toward the northeast.

Another glance at his watch.

6:45
P.M.

The evening sky was calm and clear.

But not for long.

Malone arrived at the Tower of London.

The Royal Navy Westland Lynx chopper had landed in a parking lot a few blocks away and he’d run the distance, arriving just as Lord Yourstone was climbing into a car and speeding away. He’d called William during the flight from Salisbury and the royal secretary was waiting past the ticket stalls, on the concrete path that led into the Tower.