Thomas Parry traveled to where the grandson lived and proposed his plan to Mary Howard, the boy’s mother, who readily agreed. Thirteen years had passed since her husband died. She’d lived a quiet life, though her brother, the Earl of Surrey, was one of Henry VIII’s favorites. But unbeknownst to Parry controversy was brewing within the Howard family. Mary’s father had petitioned the king for permission to marry his daughter to Thomas Seymour. That permission was granted, but Mary, aided by her brother, refused. Her brother then suggested that she seduce the king and become his mistress. But she refused, considering the thought repulsive. She and her brother became estranged after that, and she eventually testified against him when Henry tried and executed him for treason.
Mary agreed with all that Parry proposed, breaking off relations with her family. She never remarried and died in 1557, a year before her son was proclaimed queen of England. I inquired of my father how the deception was maintained since, surely, some Howard relations would have wondered what happened to the boy. But after the Earl of Surrey’s execution in 1547, the Howards harbored a great hate for Henry. If any of them were privy to the deception, none ever revealed a thought. Mary Howard, herself, knew of her family’s quest for royal power and, while resenting her father and brother, surely took amusement in how she, the lowly daughter, obtained what no male Howard had managed.
My father was told of the deception shortly after Elizabeth was proclaimed monarch. He was called to the new queen and found her alone in her chambers. She was twenty-five years old and had, for many years, worn the robe of a nun’s habit. She had, in every way, been overlooked in favor of her brother Edward, her sister Mary, and her father’s many wives. She had become accustomed to being forgotten. Now she was queen. She stood that day full of height and with a steady gaze, providing a commanding presence. Rings, fans, jewelry, embroidery, pearls, and lace garnished her attire. Her hair was yellowish red, the skin a dead white. Her eyes were set deep in their sockets and their stare was aggressive.
“My Lord Cecil, you are a man whom we have long trusted, both for your wisdom and your discretion.”
My father bowed at the compliment.
“We desire for you to serve as principal secretary. We have no doubt that you shall be faithful to us all. But there is something we must discuss.”
It was then that the imposter revealed himself, explaining all that I have detailed so far. My father listened with a patience that would characterize his life, realizing that he had been offered a unique opportunity. This man, of Tudor blood, but not born to reign, was now queen. No one, save for Lady Ashley and Thomas Parry, knew the truth. To expose the imposter would be to plunge the kingdom into civil war, as many would lay claim to the empty throne. Nothing would be gained by that. For the past twelve years this man had existed as a woman and no one was the wiser. He had become, in every way, Elizabeth Tudor. For my father to now know this would bind them together until one or both left this world. What was being proposed was not a position at court, but a partnership bound by a great deception.
My father stared up from his deathbed, watching as I absorbed all that he had said.
“I told the imposter that I was his servant and will forever remain such.”
I said nothing.
“The queen is aware that I am passing on this great secret. She desires for you, my son, to serve her as I have done. I too want that.”
“My only wish is I can be merely half the faithful servant that you have been.”
My father died a day later, August 4, 1598, and I was summoned to the queen. She was sixty-five years old that day, her cheeks hollow, the high forehead, long chin, and aquiline nose exaggerating the gauntness of a dry and wrinkled face. Most of her teeth were gone. A curled red wig covered her head and an enormous lace ruff wrapped her neck. She stared at me with the same gaze that had kept England safe the past forty years.
“What say you?”
I dropped to one knee and bowed my head. “I shall serve, as my father served, faithful and forever loyal.”
“Then it shall be, Lord Secretary. Together, we will keep England strong.”
“He knew the truth,” Miss Mary said.
They were inside an Underground station, blocks from the warehouse. Miss Mary had wanted to see what the file contained, so they’d lingered and allowed two trains to pass through while they read.
“This confirms everything I’ve ever heard of the Bisley Boy,” Miss Mary said. “Most of the legend’s tale seems true.”
Ian watched as she sat silent for a moment.
Few people were inside the station.
“This could change everything,” she muttered.
“How?”
“Mr. Malone needs to know.”
Her phone vibrated. Both their gazes locked on the screen.
“I don’t recognize that number.”
“Answer it,” he told her.
She did.
“Goodness, Tanya. I was just thinking of you,” Miss Mary said into the phone. “I need to speak with Mr. Malone. Is he still with you?”
Silence came as Miss Mary listened, then said, “We will be right there.”
The call ended.
Her face was solemn. Concerned. He waited for her to explain.
“There was trouble at Hampton Court. People tried to kill my sister and Mr. Malone. We have to go.”
Forty-eight
ANTRIM EXITED THE JEWEL HOUSE INTO THE MIDDAY SUN. He’d felt safe inside, with its crowds, cameras, guards, and metal detectors. Back out in the open he was less secure. The enormous White Tower dominated the center of the walled enclosure, surrounded by more walks, grass, and trees.
Terror engulfed him.
Denise an agent for Daedalus? Playing him the whole time? Apparently Operation King’s Deception had been known from the start. But what sparked all of the recent attention from British intelligence? Thomas Mathews supposedly killed Farrow Curry. Not Daedalus. Or had he?
His gaze searched for Gary. He’d told the boy to wait outside. Thousands of people filled the walks, here to see one of England’s signature sites. A hundred feet away, through the crowd, stood Denise Gérard and another man.
Both headed his way.
Now he realized.
This was where they wanted him.
He decided to head back inside the Jewel House, but the line of people waiting to enter was too great, and forcing his way through would only draw the attention of guards. He could seek their help, but that might not be wise in the long run. The better play was to get the hell out of there.
But what about Gary?
No time.
The boy was on his own.
There was nothing he could do. He’d told Gary to stay close. Searching for him was not possible. So he kept walking around the White Tower, working his way back toward the exit gate in the outer brick wall. He reached for his phone, deciding to see if Denise’s claim about his two agents at Hampton Court was true. Was he actually alone now? But the unit was not in his pocket. He felt around, but it was gone. He shook his head and kept walking, zigzagging a path through the congestion. A quick glance back confirmed that Denise and her companion were still there.
He’d never faced one of his lovers, after the fact, like this. The partings were always on his terms, clean and permanent, which was the way he liked it. He didn’t enjoy smacking women, and usually harbored deep regrets afterward. But sometimes it was just necessary. It was all his father’s fault—but he doubted Denise would care about that.
This operation, which was once business, had turned personal.
More so than he’d ever experienced.
GARY FLED THE JEWEL HOUSE.
He’d had trouble leaving, hanging back in the crowd, trying not to be seen by Antrim or the woman. They’d stood off the moving conveyor, near one of the display cases, talking. He’d merged with the mass of people, keeping watch, staying hidden, Antrim clearly agitated with her.
What was going
on?
And where was Antrim now?
He stepped left, passing the length of the Jewel House, then turned right, following the pavement between the White Tower and what signs identified as the hospital and Armory. A tower and part of the outer wall loomed fifty yards ahead, signaling the outer perimeter. The path he was following angled back to the right, passing before the White Tower’s impressive forward façade. A stretch of emerald grass formed a front lawn, upon which roamed a few black birds, which the visitors were photographing. Beyond, on the pavement that paralleled the far side of the White Tower, he spotted Antrim.
Heading for the exit gate.
Why?
Then he saw the woman from inside the Jewel House, a man at her side, following. His gaze drifted left, to the exit gate, where he spotted two more men. Standing. Waiting. Their heads pointed straight at Antrim, who seemed more concerned with the two following him than what lay ahead.
Now he knew.
Antrim was clearly in trouble.
He had to help.