Eleanor motioned to the newspaper. “Richard, don’t you see the harm that is being done to the monarchy? Do you enjoy being ridiculed?”
Richard shrugged. “I will always be the Prince of Wales, no matter what I say or do.”
Sadly, the fool actually believed what he’d just said. Spineless, selfish, stubborn, and stupid were just a few of the adjectives routinely applied, along with the label Prince of Wails because of his constant whining.
“What if Albert had never been born?” Yourstone asked. “What if your wife had been barren? Would you still want to be king?”
Richard seemed to consider the inquiry with earnest. “I would not. But that is not the case. And I cannot allow the press to drive me from my birthright. That much I do owe our family.”
“Your son is nearing twenty-two. He’s capable of inheriting the throne. Why not allow him?”
“You make it sound like that prospect would please you.”
Yourstone shook his head. “You’re the one talking about being so unhappy. I’m merely offering you a logical, legal way to resolve your conflict.”
“I know. I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just that I really do not care to be known as a king who abdicated his throne.”
Eleanor stepped close to her brother. “Richard, you are a desperate soul. Lost and unhappy. I worry about you. Let your son take the throne and concern yourself no more with this nonsense. Deny the press the opportunity to hurt you any more. Go live your life, as you see fit.”
Richard considered her again through weary eyes. She was the only person on earth he might listen to. He’d made no secret of the fact that he despised their mother and was afraid of their father.
The prince hung his head low and spoke to the carpet. “It should have been you, Ellie.”
“I don’t want to be queen. But I would do my duty, if that was thrust upon me.”
Richard looked up at her. “That is the remarkable thing about you. You always do your duty. Regarding Mother, Father, and country. In that way you are a far better person than I.”
“I only want my brother to be happy.”
She said it with such conviction Yourstone nearly believed the declaration himself.
“My son is a robust young man who will one day be Albert I. But God forbid, if anything ever happened to him, I would, without a doubt, leave this position forever. Then, dear Ellie, this prison would indeed be yours.”
Yourstone nearly smiled.
That was precisely what he’d come to hear.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Malone was familiar with the chopper, a Royal Navy Westland Lynx, and listened as the Rolls-Royce turboshafts drove the swept-tip blades through the afternoon air. The navy had taught him how to fly fighter jets and he’d logged a respectable amount of time in a Tomcat, but he’d never sat behind the controls of a helicopter.
Sir Thomas Mathews, head of the Secret Intelligence Service, had transported them to an airfield where the chopper had waited. They’d made the eighty-mile journey from London to Salisbury in a little under an hour, skirting the sloping hills and tree-fringed meadows of the Wiltshire region, eventually overflying the magnificent Salisbury Cathedral.
The town itself was ancient, lined with thickly built streets and aging architecture that conveyed, even from the air, an overpowering ancient spirit. North of town center sat the university, a collage of limestone buildings intermingled among stately oak and walnut trees. The pilot expertly landed in the middle of a deserted athletic field. A waiting car drove them across campus to a three-story building with a crumbling façade veined with ivy. Pale gray carvings spanning the top cast an appearance of tattered lace. Workers were busy raking the surrounding yard clean of autumn leaves.
Britain’s top spymaster had said little on the trip.
And Malone had kept his mouth shut, too.
Inside, Mathews led them to a second-floor office where a gangly, bearded man with oversized ears sat behind a green metal desk littered with books. He introduced himself as Professor Goulding. Malone noted diplomas on the wall that indicated doctorates in history from both Cambridge and Oxford.
“I understand that William provided you photos of a cauldron,” Mathews said. “After you met with the queen about her … family situation.”
“You have spies within the palace?”
“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.