The Plantagenet Vendetta (56 page)

Epilogue

“She’s dead; I know that she’s dead.”

They were the first words she had ever said on camera. They were the words that made her famous.

She hadn’t had time to consider the implications. Nor had she experience of the press.

The following week, she said the opposite. By then she’d had the time, and the experience. 50, 60, perhaps even 100 million people watched. They heard her say it.

But nobody remembered.

They remembered only what she had said the first time.

“She’s dead; I know that she’s dead.”

They were the words that she’d be remembered for.

Whether she meant them or not.

Gillian Harrison had been standing alone in the churchyard for over an hour, considering the implications. Over the last thirteen months, she’d had plenty of time to consider them. The cameras had gone, as had the press…as had all the other intrusions. The only thing that hadn’t gone was the implications. Not for the wider world, but for her.

During the last year, the churchyard hadn’t changed very much. A new cross had been erected in the far corner, a memorial to a war hero. Just like any other village in England, such things were prevalent. There was a new hole in the ground close to the wall as well, this time for someone’s ashes. She didn’t know who it was for, or who the relatives were.

Though she guessed that she probably knew them.

The monument in front of her was the only other new addition. It was angelic in every sense of the word. It was large, at least three metres in height, making it one of the largest in the cemetery. The only thing greater was the cost, but that had been taken care of by others. It was a tradition in these parts. Some called it generosity. Some, community spirit. Others used a far simpler word.

Love.

It wasn’t just the locals who contributed. Money came from America, Canada, Australia…all around Europe. And not just adults, either. Some had even been in coins, sometimes pennies.

But it was the cards that touched her the most. That and the messages.

Messages of love.

She had incorporated some of them into the body. The face of the angel was also familiar. It was her face, appearing as though it was a genuine statue. That, too, had been a gift from outsiders. No way could she have afforded it on her own. That was another implication of the words she’d said.

This time a positive one.

But among the positives remained the overwhelming negative.

She had been right the first time.

She really was dead.

Gillian Harrison put her hand to her face and felt tears. Once they started, they wouldn’t stop, at least for a while. She felt her eyes close, incapable of reopening. Her cheeks were wet on both sides, and would only get wetter.

When the worst of it was over, she turned to her right, feeling a presence nearby. She wiped her eyes. Despite clearing her vision, she was still to see anything other than a vague outline. The woman had blonde hair, just like her own.

Wiping her eyes again, she walked toward her, not stopping until reaching her. Though the woman said nothing, it wasn’t the silence that was awkward.

It was the implications that were awkward.

Despite not being her fault.

“I’m so sorry, Gillian,” Susan Rankin said, placing her hands on her shoulders.

Gillian Harrison said nothing.

Despite the hardship, she somehow managed a smile.

The Mall was packed, as were the other streets that marked the route between Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey. Estimates for the number of bystanders ranged from one hundred thousand to a couple of million, depending on the network that covered the event, or the location they were actually looking at.

In reality, it was impossible to count.

In every direction, the view was glorious. It was a ritual unlike any in the world. Nothing brought out the crowds like a coronation. None carried out the job quite like the British. Even the foreign media agreed.

The fact was indisputable.

At just after 2:30pm they finally saw him. The royal carriage emerged from the gates to make its journey along the Mall to the abbey. A large armed guard moved on horseback, dressed as redcoats like their predecessors. Cameras flashed, the crowds waved, people cheered as they got their fleeting glimpse of the new king and his son.

It was a picture. Dressed in a crimson surcoat like that of his forebears, he appeared just like his father, oozing charisma.

Today, nothing could hide the smiles on their faces.

Inside the abbey, the crowds had gathered. The soft sound of the organ dominated as the organist continued to prepare for the service.

The most important guests sat at the front. Most had arrived recently, while others were still to make their way inside.

Those at the front received the attention. Sitting alongside the Duke of York, his daughter, Princess Caroline, had rarely been out of the spotlight. The gossip columns continued to speculate about her appearance; rumours of plastic surgery the most prominent.

Even if it were true, the work had been carried out so neatly the seam was barely seen.

Even a row back, anonymity was almost guaranteed. Behind the Duke of Clarence in the front row, the brown-haired man in his late twenties remained silent. The crowd would be forgiven for not recognising this minor royal.

Even less, the blonde sitting beside him.

In another part of the city, four men were being marched along a well-lit corridor. The lieutenant waited for the high-security door to open before allowing the armed guard to lead them to their cells.

The blond man in his late twenties led the way; following him, the three were much older. They were still to receive an official sentence, but they didn’t need a judge to tell them release was out of the question. While those deemed accomplices had escaped with comparatively light sentences, ninety days for being an accessory to five years in Wandsworth for conspiracy to regicide, these four had no such luck.

To the wider world, their fate would remain a mystery. For them, incarceration would be different.

While clarification of their location would never be made known, even to them the choice was painfully ironic.

It was the same place traitors to the Crown had always been kept.

Over two hundred miles north, two large cars moved up the driveway of the ancient mansion. Under the seclusion of the trees, their arrivals did not arouse suspicion. Even if they had been seen, it was nothing out of the ordinary. The villagers had grown up on such sights. In centuries past, stories were told of large carriages coming and going in the middle of the night, leaving like ghosts, never to return.

In front of the house, the former headmaster of the local school was standing perfectly still, anticipating their arrival. He had not been seen recently in the village, nor did he wish to change that.

The questions, he knew, would have been numerous.

He waited for the drivers to park before showing the new arrivals inside. Unlike most visits, the location of choice was below. After descending a winding staircase, the witness would be greeted by the sight of something from Medieval England. It was not quite a courthouse, but not dissimilar. Several chairs surrounded the strange table, all at present unoccupied. At the head of the room was the most important chair, its decoration in the manner of a throne.

Today that would remain empty.

Directly opposite were three vacant seats. As the newcomers entered, Father Martin nodded his head and gestured in the direction of the seats. Though he had never met two of the three, he recognised them immediately. Their faces were just like those of their fathers, perhaps even their fathers’ fathers. Lovell sat on the left, the two younger men in the middle and right.

The seats of Catesby and Ratcliffe.

They were the trinity. In the past songs were sung about them. The great significance of the Cat, the Rat and Lovell the Dog. Who ruled all England under a Hog.

And so it remained…

The Facts Behind My Fiction

As with my previous thrillers, the story is a work of fiction. Much of what you have just read was entirely made up; however, there were times when the story was inspired by fact and history.

For those of you who are interested, what follows is an insight into my research into
The Plantagenet Vendetta
. Thanks for reading.

See you next year!

Wootton-on-the-Moor/Ravensfield

The main location in the novel was a village called Wootton, based in the rugged North York Moors. The village itself is made up and bears no major similarity to any real location, apart from the obvious general similarities of any English village. In the past, there was a real town named Ravenspurn located on the Yorkshire coast, but that disappeared into the sea due to coastal erosion in the 1800s. The town was relevant as at least two medieval kings of England landed there, but it had no connection to my made-up Ravensfield. Ravensfield Castle and Priory are therefore also fictitious. Nearby Titherton, Shipsey, Maplewell and Bishopton are also made up.

The House of Winchester

Obviously fictitious. Unlike the present House of Windsor, the Winchesters were a fictitious continuation of the House of Saxe-Coburg since around the reign of Victoria. In keeping with their names, every generation attended school at Winchester College. This is a real establishment and is one of the four top public schools in the country, dating back to the reign of Richard II. In real life, the royals have had a tendency to go to Gordonstoun, whereas the sons of the Prince of Wales went to Eton. References to Buckingham Palace’s interior are mainly fictitious, whereas the general observations are researched.

Royal Titles

In truth, something of a mixture. As the new monarch Stephen II has only recently come to the throne and is still to be crowned, various investitures are still to occur. The son of the king, Stephen, Duke of Cornwall, would have inherited that title, including the Duchy of Cornwall, as right of blood succession. The more famous title, Prince of Wales, is a title that requires royal investiture; therefore he is unlikely to gain the title immediately. The Duke of York is usual for the second son of the king, and usually falls upon that person instantly.

The Duchy of Clarence

A famous title in English history, though now more or less defunct. It is generally a junior title: the most famous example was George, third son of Richard, 3rd Duke of York, middle brother of Edward, 7th Earl of March, later Edward IV and Richard, Duke of Gloucester, later Richard III. The most recent title was given to Prince Albert Victor, son of Edward VII, henceforth Duke of Clarence and Avondale, who died without issue.

George Winchester, Duke of Clarence, in this novel is, of course, fictitious, as is his son, Thomas. As son of the Duke of Clarence, Thomas would probably be heir to his father’s estates and titles. Reference to Clarence being located at Clare, Suffolk, is historically correct.

The house, however, does not exist.

Real-life buildings

Many places mentioned in the book are real. Middleham Castle still exists and was once the home of Richard III and Anne Neville. Westminster Abbey is accurately described; the urn containing the bodies of two children commonly assumed to be Edward V and Richard, 1st Duke of York, is located just off the Lady chapel, close to the joint tomb of Mary I and Elizabeth I. The tombs of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York are the main feature of the magnificent Lady chapel.

Riverton is made up, while the nearby villages are real. References to Keble, Magdalen and the Bodleian are all based on fact, though I have, of course, used them fictitiously. The earl’s reading room in the Bodley is made up, but the other references, such as the Radcliffe Camera, are fact.

The King Edward hospital exists and is a usual port of call for the royals. The interior is largely made up. The same is true for the Royal College of Physicians, whose accurately portrayed exterior and history is merged with a fictitious interior based on my personal research.

References to the Tower of London are largely accurate, except for the Cromwell Tower beneath the surface. As far as I’m aware, this is fictitious. Also made up is my suggestion that the Chief Yeoman Warder and the Constable of the Tower of London are the same role. They are separate.