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Henry took a personal interest in FitzRoy’s upbringing. He was made lord high admiral of England, lord president of the Council to the North, warden of the marches towards Scotland, and lord-lieutenant of Ireland. Many believe that if Henry had died without a legitimate son there would have been a Henry IX in the form of FitzRoy, his illegitimacy be damned. An act made its way through Parliament that specifically disinherited Henry’s first legitimate born, Mary, and permitted the king to designate his successor, whether legitimate or not.
But fate altered that course.
FitzRoy died in 1536, eleven years before his father. The same tuberculosis that would eventually claim Henry’s second son, Edward, at fifteen stole the life from FitzRoy at seventeen. But not before FitzRoy married Mary Howard. She was the daughter of the second most senior noble in England, her grandfather the most senior. They were joined in 1533 when Mary was fourteen and FitzRoy fifteen.
Henry VIII’s older brother, Arthur, had died at age sixteen, never ascending to the throne. Henry always believed that too much sexual activity hastened his brother’s death, so he forbade FitzRoy and Mary from consummating their marriage until they were older. That command was ignored and Mary became pregnant, giving birth to a son in 1534. The child was raised in secret by the Howard family, far from London, his existence concealed from the king, who never knew he’d become a grandfather.
Gary listened as Miss Mary told them about the wayward grandchild.
“He resembled his father, FitzRoy, in many ways. Thin. Frail. Fair-skinned. Red-haired. But he acquired his constitution from the Howard side of the family. Unlike Tudor offspring, he was healthy. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the fate of Henry’s second daughter, Elizabeth. Her mother, Anne Boleyn, was also a Howard, through her mother. But Elizabeth inherited her father’s curse of early death and died when she was barely thirteen.”
“I thought Elizabeth was queen?” Gary asked.
Miss Mary shook her head. “Her illegitimate nephew, Henry FitzRoy’s son, assumed that honor in her place, after she died young.”
The door to the warehouse squeaked open and Antrim stepped inside, walking across to the tables and introducing himself to Ian and Miss Mary. They hadn’t met last night, Antrim’s men handling everything.
“You, young man,” Antrim said to Ian, “caused us a lot of problems.”
“In what way?” Miss Mary asked.
“He stole a flash drive that held some important information.”
“What could possibly be so important as to endanger a child’s life?”
“I didn’t realize his life was in danger.”
“He has been fleeing for the past month.”
“Which was his own fault, for stealing. But that isn’t a concern any longer. In fact, none of it is. This operation is over. We’re out of here.”
“It’s over?” Gary asked.
Antrim nodded. “The order I received is to close this down.”
“What happens to these treasures?” Miss Mary said. “That you stole.”
Antrim threw her a hard gaze before saying, “That’s not your concern, either.”
“And what about Mr. Malone and the other lady?” Miss Mary asked.
“What other lady?”
“The SOCA agent,” Ian said. “The one who shot up the bookstore when those men came to get the drive.”
“Malone didn’t mention the agent was a woman,” Antrim said. “And I’ve spoken to him twice.”
“Maybe he thought that information none of your concern,” Miss Mary said.
“Where is my dad?” Gary asked.
“Hampton Court.”
“Then she’s with him,” Ian said.
“Did she have a name?”
Miss Mary nodded. “She showed me her badge. Kathleen Richards.”
KATHLEEN GAVE THE MAN BLOCKING HER WAY NO TIME TO react, tackling him to the floor, then planting her knee in his groin.
He cried out in pain.
She sprang to her feet.
The gun was still nestled against her spine, beneath her coat. People around her looked on in surprise, some retreating, giving her space. She withdrew her SOCA badge and displayed it.
“Official matter. Leave him be.”
The man was still on the floor, writhing in pain.
A camera caught her eye.
Which was a problem.
She hustled through more baroque rooms, then turned and realized she was in a rear corner of the palace. A closed door to her right was marked EXIT, to be used only in an emergency.
This certainly qualified, so she yanked it open.
A stairway led down.
ANTRIM WAS STUNNED. HE HADN’T HEARD THAT NAME IN TEN years. Kathleen Richards was in the middle of this?
That could not be a coincidence.
“Describe this woman.”
From the sound of it, she hadn’t changed much.
“Malone and I saved the SOCA lady from the same men who tried to kill me,” Ian said. “They were going to kill her, too.”
“Tell me what you know.”
He listened as Ian Dunne recounted what had happened in Oxford Circus and since. At one point he interrupted and asked, “Do you know who those men were in the Bentley the night my man died?”
“The old guy was named Thomas Mathews. That’s what Malone called him when we saw him outside the bookstore last night.”
Another stunner.
Head of the Secret Intelligence Service.
What in the world?
He listened to the rest of the story, and now he was panicked. What had seemed like a smooth ride out had just turned treacherous. Bad enough last night when Malone reported about a SOCA agent, but if his superiors learned that MI6 was directly involved there’s no telling what they would do. He’d definitely be abandoned. Left on his own. Subject to arrest.
Or worse.
He had to speak with Daedalus.
They wouldn’t want this to escalate.
Not at all.
MALONE AND TANYA REENTERED THE HAUNTED GALLERY, following the same threadbare runner, except they were now moving against the flow of traffic back toward the Great Hall.
They fled the gallery and passed back through the Watching Chamber, entering a connecting space that led left, into the Great Hall, and right down to ground level by way of a staircase. Antlers adorned the plain white walls. Tanya avoided the Great Hall and headed straight for the staircase.
“This way, Mr. Malone. It leads to the kitchens.”
He sidestepped more visitors.
A metal chain blocked the stairs with a sign that warned NO ENTRY, but they hopped over and started down.
One of the uniformed attendants stepped to the railing above and called out, “You cannot go there.”
“It’s quite all right,” Tanya said. “It’s just me.”
The attendant seemed to recognize her and waved them on.
“They are quite diligent,” Tanya said, as they continued to descend. “So many visitors every day. People like to take a wander. But it helps to have worked here for twenty years.”
He was grateful for both her presence and that he still carried the gun from earlier beneath his jacket.
They came to the ground floor and he heard footfalls behind them, on the risers, descending.
Surely the two fake cops.
“We must not dawdle,” Tanya said.
They exited through a door with no latch. Too bad. A simple dead bolt would have been wonderful. But this was surely a modern fire escape from the first floor, once the path where prepared food in the kitchens was transported up to the Great Hall.
A long, narrow corridor stretched in both directions.
Visitors milled about.
Tanya turned left, then right, and entered the Great Kitchen. He recalled what he could about this part of the palace. Over fifty rooms, three thousand square feet, once staffed by two hundred people. Two meals a day were provided from here to the 800 members o
f Henry VIII’s court. They were inside a spacious room with two hearths, a fire raging in each, the high ceilings and walls more whitewash. People were everywhere, snapping pictures, chattering, probably imagining themselves 500 years in the past.
“Come, Mr. Malone. This way.”
She led them through the kitchen, stopping at a doorway that opened into a covered courtyard.
