“Only yesterday, my beloved John, the son I thought above all others would never betray me, turned against me. I can only hope that somewhere within my realm another Arthur might rise and silence the voices of greed and deceit.”
Henry indicated with a flick of his hand that the message was complete. The scribe wrote the final few words, and the vellum was rolled and sealed with a wax signet.
“Go to England. Take my message to Glastonbury with all haste,” Henry said. Then another coughing spell racked his chest.
Chills came to his spine each time he read the passage. He’d shared the account with his contact at the Globe, who’d been forced to share it with the paper’s publisher. That fool had somehow thought it his duty to inform the palace as to what he’d learned. Why, he didn’t know.
But that betrayal had required definitive action.
Which the voice on the phone earlier had provided.
He could almost see Ralph FitzStephen’s face when, at Glastonbury Abbey, he’d read Henry II’s final words. By then the king was dead, having passed two days after the messenger left Chinon Castle. Henry’s son Richard had immediately claimed the British throne and was busy consolidating power. Glastonbury itself, which represented the heart of English Christendom, awaited its new prior, and a few months later Henry de Sully was appointed to the post by Richard. It was FitzStephen and de Sully who met soon after and realized the full extent of the revelation Henry had provided.
He read the words again.
Beneath that slab lies the leaden cross of the King of the Britons. Farther down will be the mortal remains of Arthur and his Guinevere.
“Thank God you were at least half right,” he whispered.
CHAPTER FIVE
Malone listened as Big Ben chimed, signaling 1:30 P.M. He’d hoped Nigel Yourstone was still in his office at Parliament, but was disappointed to learn he’d left an hour earlier. A call to William secured the address of Yourstone’s London residence, a limestone-and-marble edifice just in Belgravia, not far from Buckingham Palace. He’d always been fond of the direct approach, which was why he believed that a face-to-face encounter with the potential enemy might rattle some cages.
He rang the front doorbell.
To the steward who answered, a middle-aged man with silver-streaked hair and a hooked nose, he introduced himself and said that he would like to speak with Lord Yourstone.
“That would be impossible. His lordship speaks only by appointment.”
“Do you have a pad?” he asked.
The question seemed to catch the attendant off guard, but he recovered and lifted one from a nearby table.
“And a pen?”
Annoyance now registered, but apparently British breeding refused to allow rudeness. The steward slowly reached for a pen and handed it to him. He accepted both offers and wrote: COTTON MALONE, UNITED STATES JUSTICE DEPARTMENT, TO SEE HIS LORDSHIP ON A PERSONAL MATTER. WE CAN TALK HERE OR YOU CAN OFFER YOUR REBUTTAL TO REPORTERS LATER WHEN THEY CALL. PERSONALLY, I LIKE THE LATTER COURSE BETTER.
He tore the top sheet off, folded the paper in half, and handed it over.
Two minutes later the door reopened and he was ushered inside to a spacious study, whose mosaic floor, stuccoed ceiling of elaborate octagonal panels, and gilded furniture screamed Old World extravagance. Yourstone was apparently obsessed with portraiture, as many dotted what appeared to be Carrara marble walls. Classical statuary was abundant, as were busts of Shakespeare, Bacon, and Newton. A portrait dominated the wall behind the desk and was, if Malone was right, a Van Dyck. Pretentiousness was most likely an occupational hazard for someone whose family had come to expect everything from life, but there was something challenging in the look of the man who rose to greet him. Nigel Yourstone was even more imposing up close than on television, and if he was disturbed by the introductory note he showed not a hint of concern, his face as stoic as those on the statutes that encircled the room.
Yourstone thanked the steward, who left, closing the door.
“What may I do for you, Mr. Cotton Malone, United States Justice Department?” The voice was the same baritone from earlier on television. “Your note indicated a personal matter. That, along with the veiled threat about the press, piqued my curiosity. As was its intention. So what is this about?”
“The game’s over.”
His target never flinched. “I was unaware that there was any game ongoing, much less one that I was a participant in. But, if there were, what interest is there for the American Justice Department?”
“Enough that I’m here.”
“To threaten me?”
He shrugged. “I look at it more as instructing you.”
Yourstone threw him a tight stare.
He asked, “Do you know what C-83 is?”
Yourstone didn’t waver as he answered, “I have no idea. Care to enlighten me?”
Malone shrugged off the inquiry. “Doesn’t matter.”
He drifted toward a row of windows that admitted the bright midday sun, lingering before a glass table where a pair of sphinxes, cast in what appeared to be bronze, rested. He assumed there was a story to them, as they were placed in a position of prominence. An oil painting of a manor house hung above them.
“That’s my country home,” Yourstone said. “That painting was commissioned in 1786 for one of my ancestors.”
“A beautiful place,” he said. “Your family has been around a long time.”
“We have served the Crown four centuries.”
“Now your son is married to Victoria’s daughter.”
“For an American, you certainly know a lot about me.”
He shrugged. “I just love the English.” He lightly stroked one of the sphinxes. “It’s not going to work.”
Yourstone’s face remained rigid.
Then he realized. This man already knew he was involved. Perhaps he’d even expected a visit? “You have good spies.”
“One good spy is better than 500 well-armed troops.”
“Sun Tzu also said all war is deception.”
“That it is.”
And something else the great Chinese strategist had written about winning came to mind. Pretend inferiority and encourage arrogance.