The King's Deception (Cotton Malone 8)

MALONE KEPT HIS GAZE LOCKED ON THOMAS MATHEWS.

“I had no choice,” Mathews said. “Ordering those men to shoot you was not done with any joy.”

He kept his cool. “Yet you still did it.”

“Your presence has altered everything,” Mathews said. “And not in a positive way.”

“You killed two Americans.”

“One was greedy. The other smart. But as you know, in this business such moves are quite common. I have a task to perform, and there is little room to maneuver.”

“You want to kill Ian Dunne, too. No. That’s not right. You actually have to kill him.”

“Another unfortunate circumstance.”

He needed to leave. Every second he lingered only increased the risk that he was already taking.

“Do you have any idea why Antrim involved you?” Mathews asked.

The older man stood tall and straight, his signature cane held by the right hand. Malone recalled something about a bad hip, that had progressively worsened with age, necessitating the walking stick.

“He asked me to find Ian Dunne. That’s all.”

A curious look came to Mathews’ face. “That’s not what I mean. Why are you here, in London?”

“I was doing a favor.”

A curious look came to Mathews face. “You truly don’t know.”

He waited.

“Antrim maneuvered for you to escort Ian Dunne back from the United States. The boy was caught in Florida, then transported to Atlanta to meet up with you. Why was that necessary? Are there not agents in Florida who could have escorted him home? Instead, he specifically asked for you to do it, having his supervisor call Stephanie Nelle.”

“How in the hell do you know that?”

“Cotton, I’ve been in this job a long time. I have many friends. Many sources. You do realize that Gary was taken by men hired by Antrim?”

No, he did not.

“The entire thing was a show for your benefit.”

He had a horrible feeling, like he was three steps behind everyone else.

And that usually meant trouble.

He found his phone, switched it on, and called Antrim’s number. No answer. No voice mail. Just ringing. Over and over.

Which signaled more trouble.

He clicked the phone off and said, “I have to leave.”

“I can’t allow that.”

He still held his gun. “I’m not Antrim.”

He heard a noise and saw two men enter the court from one of the doors leading to the viewing booths that lined the walls.

Both were armed.

KATHLEEN CLOSED THE DOOR TO THE BREAK ROOM, THE TWO agents sprawled motionless on the floor. She approached the door leading back to the tennis court, armed and angry. Beyond, in the narrow hall that wrapped the court on two sides, she saw no one. But through glass panels that separated the corridor from viewing boxes she spotted four men. Two from the garden, with guns. Thomas Mathews. And Cotton Malone—armed, but clearly in trouble. What was Malone doing here? He should have been gone.

“Please lay down your weapon,” Mathews said to Malone.

Her vantage point was at the court’s far end, short side, where none of the others could see her.

A door stood open a few meters away.

She crouched below the glass and crept toward it, slipping inside one of the viewing booths. Three rows of seats ran parallel. She stayed low and approached another door that opened into the court.

Time to repay a debt.

Forty-nine

IAN FOLLOWED MISS MARY ONTO THE TRAIN.

He knew the London Underground, having many times explored parts that were off limits to the public. Several of the tunnels offered a respite from either winter’s cold or summer’s heat, places where he could linger in safety, so long as the police or a worker didn’t find him. He hadn’t utilized them in a while, ever since Miss Mary allowed him to guard her shop. He was grateful to her, more than he could ever express, glad she was here with him now.

They sat in two empty seats.

“I don’t know about you,” she whispered. “But I am anxious to read more of what Robert Cecil wrote.”

He agreed.

She found her phone and again accessed the email she’d sent herself, locating in the attachment where they’d left off.

I BEGAN MY SERVICE TO THE QUEEN AUGUST 4, 1598. THOUGH I KNEW NOT at the time, barely five years remained in her reign. The queen and I discussed the deception on a mere six occasions. Four of those were in the final months of her life. The first time was the most memorable.

“Ask us what you want,” the queen said to me.

I stood inside the bedchamber at Nonsuch. Henry VIII had built the palace as a place of fantasy. Unlike Henry’s first daughter, Mary, this queen had enjoyed it.

“Your father was of great service to us,” the queen said. “Our success and longevity is thanks to him. It is our hope that you will also bring us good fortune.”

“That would be my only desire.”

“Then ask what you will and let us be done with this subject.”

We spoke for nearly two hours. The tale was one of amazing doing and dare. He was the grandson of Henry VIII, his father the bastard child of Elizabeth Blount, his mother a Howard, the daughter of a great lord. He had lived in obscurity, raised by the Howards, his existence unknown to any Tudor. He was but thirteen, innocent, highly educated, and taught from birth that he was special. But no chance existed of him ever being anything more than the son of a bastard. All titles and privileges which his father had enjoyed ended with his father’s death. Barely a year after that Jane Seymour gave the king a legitimate son and, thereafter, no Tudor cared a moment for Henry FitzRoy or any child he may have sired. But with the unexpected death of princess Elizabeth, and the appearance of Thomas Parry with a plan to substitute the grandson for the daughter, Mary Howard saw an opportunity.

At the time he’d worn his red hair long, his muscles and bones slim, trim, and feminine. In fact, he’d always thought himself trapped. His body that of a man, his mind a woman. The conflict had raged in him since he was old enough to remember. The opportunity his mother offered would end that debate. He would become a woman, taking the princess Elizabeth’s identity in every way.

That happened in 1546. No one at the time considered that he might one day be queen. The idea had simply been to placate Henry and save the lives of Kate Ashley and Thomas Parry. Many obstacles remained in the path to the throne. Edward still lived, as did Mary. Elizabeth, at best, was third in line but only if a half brother and sister died without heirs. The subterfuge, though, worked and, as years passed, the grandson blossomed behind the heavy makeup, wigs, and billowing dresses that became his trademark. Lady Ashley tended to his every need, as did Thomas Parry, and no one ever suspected any deceit. Twelve years passed and both Edward and Mary died with no heirs. His mother, Mary Howard, also died. He was alone, no identity save for t

he one created by him as the princess Elizabeth. Then, at age 25, he became queen. When I inquired how the deception was maintained after he was crowned, he became whimsical. He assured me that so long as one was careful and diligent, there was no fear of any revelation. Lady Ashley served the queen until 1565, when she died.

“One of the saddest days of our life,” he told me, eyes reddening, though 33 years had passed.

Thomas Parry died in 1560, barely two years into the reign. He was never a popular man at court, and many said he left this world of mere ill humor. Of course, he conceived the deception so he always remained close to the queen. Knighted, he served as controller of the royal household. My father told me that the queen paid for his funeral in Westminster, which was never understood by me until that day at Nonsuch.

Blanche Parry became the queen’s Chief Gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber after Lady Ashley’s death and served until 1590. Though never acknowledged, Lady Parry was surely aware of the deception. The queen treated her as a baroness, granting her two wardships in Yorkshire and Wales, and burying her in St. Margaret’s Chapel, Westminster, with all the pomp of royalty.

“So long as we do certain things in private,” the queen explained, “no one could ever know.”

Which explained many of the habits. He dressed in private and bathed only with either Lady Ashley or Parry in attendance. He owned an array of eighty wigs and insisted on clothing that concealed his chest and lacked contour from the waist down. He wore heavy white makeup on his face, a sign of purity many observers noted, but it also allowed a masking of features. Always more feminine than masculine, he had sparse hair on his body, including the head, as he’d inherited the Tudor tendency toward baldness. Doctors were allowed to treat him, but never to examine anything more than his eyes, mouth, and throat. At no time could anyone touch his person, and few ever did.

I left the encounter that day feeling both scared and satisfied. This man, who had by then ably ruled England for thirty-nine years, perhaps better than any monarch before, was an imposter. He possessed no right to the throne, yet he occupied it, as completely and thoroughly as if Elizabeth herself had survived. The people loved him, the queen’s popularity never in question. My father had made me pledge to serve him and that I did, until the day he died in 1603. Ever vigilant, he left specific instructions that no autopsy would be performed and none was. I was told by the queen exactly what to do with the body, which I followed only somewhat precisely.