“This I have secreted away, in a place long ago known to the Templars.”
He’d not heard that order’s name in some time. Once they’d been a presence in England, but they were gone now two hundred years. Their churches and compounds remained, scattered in all parts, and he’d visited several. Which one held the secret?
He had to know.
So he offered one last submission.
A final obedient glare.
“Your duty,” his father said, “is to safeguard our wealth and pass it on to your son. I fought to bring this family to the throne and, by God, it is your duty to ensure that we remain there.”
On that they agreed.
“You will like this place. It has served me well and so it shall serve you.”
SHE STARED AT MATHEWS. “IS THAT TRUE?”
He nodded. “As far as we know. This account is contained within archives that are unavailable to the general public.”
“It’s five-hundred-year-old information.”
“Which, amazingly, still has explosive relevance today. Hence why we are here.”
How was that possible? But she stayed silent.
“Sir Thomas Wriothesley wrote an account of what happened that day. April 20, 1509. Henry VII died the following day. Unfortunately, Wriothesley’s account did not record what the father actually told the son. That was learned second hand, from Henry VIII himself, many decades later. What we do know is that Henry VIII passed on the information about this special place to his sixth wife, Katherine Parr, just before he died in 1547. We also know that the value of Henry VII’s wealth, at the time of his death, was around four and a half million pounds. In today’s money that would be incalculable, since most of it was in precious metals, the quantity and quality of which is uncertain. But into the billions of pounds would not be out of the question.”
He then told her about what happened at Henry VIII’s deathbed in January 1547. A conversation between husband and wife similar, in so many ways, to the one thirty-eight years before between father and son.
“Henry VIII was foolish when it came to women,” Mathews said. “He misplaced his trust in Katherine Parr, who hated Henry. The last thing she would do is pass that information on to Edward VI.” The older man paused. “Do you know much about Katherine Parr?”
She shook her head.
Mathews explained that she was born to one of Henry VIII’s early courtesans, named after his first wife, Katherine of Aragon. Highly educated, she spoke French, Spanish, and Italian. Henry married her in 1543. When he died in 1547 she was but thirty-six. Shortly after she married a fourth time, to Thomas Seymour, and eventually became pregnant. She moved to Sudeley Castle in Gloucestershire and gave birth to a daughter in August 1548, but died six days later. Seymour himself lived until March 1549, when he was executed for treason. After that, Katherine Parr, Thomas Seymour, and their daughter, Mary, faded into oblivion.
“But that may no longer be the case,” Mathews said.
Something serious is happening here. That’s what her supervisor had said at Windsor. All of the talk about her SOCA career being over and being back in Middle Hall had stirred memories of sitting at the tables, with other barristers and students, and taking a meal, a duty required periodically from all Temple members. Once, centuries ago, they’d blow a horn on the hall steps half an hour before dinner. But the horn could not be heard by those hunting hares on the Thames far bank, so it was eventually retired to the vault.
She’d often imagined what it must have been like, hundreds of years ago, living here, reading law. Maybe she’d be back soon, as an ex-agent, to see for herself.
Time for a little pushback.
“Why am I here?”
Her supervisor had said, They asked for you.
“Blake Antrim.”
A name she’d not heard in a long time. And to hear it here, in Middle Hall, only compounded her surprise.
“Apparently you are aware that Antrim and I were once close.”
“We were hoping someone within one of our agencies would be familiar with him. A computer search revealed a rather glowing recommendation written by Antrim, as part of your application for SOCA employment.”
“I have not seen or spoken to him in ten years.”
And never wanted to again.
“Your father was a Middle Templar,” Mathews said. “As were your grandfather and great-grandfather. Each a barrister. Your great-grandfather was a bencher. You were to follow them. But you left the law and became an inspector. Yet to this day you diligently retain your Temple membership, never shirking any obligation. Why is that?”
She’d been thoroughly checked out. Some of that was not in her SOCA personnel file. “Why I chose not to practice law is irrelevant.”
“I do not agree. In fact, it might become an overriding truth that none of us can ignore.”
She said nothing and he seemed to sense her hesitancy.
With his mahogany cane Mathews again gestured to the hall. For the first time she noticed the ivory globe that formed its handle, the continents etched in black upon its polished surface. “This building has stood 500 years, and remains one of the last Tudor structures. Supposedly, the War of the Roses started just outside, in the garden. Sides were chosen in 1430 by the pick of a flower. The Lancasterians plucked a red rose—the Yorks white—and fifty-five years of civil war began.” He paused. “These Temple grounds have seen so much of our history—and they endure, becoming more relevant with each passing year.”
He’d still not answered her original question.
“Why did you ask me to come here?”
“May I show you?”
Eleven