The King's Deception

Within these pages I have revealed a momentous secret, one that would have deep repercussions if ever revealed. My hope is that by the time these words are deciphered the fact that her majesty, Elizabeth I, was not as she appeared would be nothing more than a historical curiosity. My father taught me that truth is fleeting, its meaning fluid, depending on time and circumstances. No greater example of that wisdom exists than what has transpired here. I am sure that the reader has not forgotten what the two King Henrys passed down and what Katherine Parr told the imposter. Your reward for deciphering this journal is the opportunity to see that which only royalty has been privy to visit. There I have left the wealth of the Tudors. Also, there rests the imposter, safe from all prying eyes, peaceful in his eternal sleep. England was lucky to have him, no matter the fact that he was illegitimate in every legal way. But no more remorse. The time for that is over. I go to my grave with no regrets, glad that I will not be here to witness the downfall of all that my family holds dear. I fear a grave mistake was made in empowering the Stuarts. Kingship is more than a crown. Once I thought of telling James what I know. That was before I realized he was wholly unfit to be king. He knows nothing, nor does any other living soul. I am the last. You, reader, are now the first. Do what you may with your knowledge. My only hope is that you show the wisdom that the good Queen Elizabeth demonstrated during his forty-five years on the throne.

What you seek can be found beneath the former Blackfriars Abbey. It was placed there long before the abbey existed and found by one of the friars during the reign of Richard III. Access is through what was once the wine cellar, an opening in its floor concealed by one of the casks. Upon the cask is carved an old monk’s prayer. “He who drinks wine sleeps well. He who sleeps well cannot sin. He who does not sin goes to heaven.”

Antrim finished Robert Cecil’s narrative.

He was inside an Internet café before one of the desktops, Gary standing beside him.

“Where is Blackfriars Abbey?” the boy asked.

A good question.

He knew the name. A locale near the Inns of Court, within the City, on the banks of the Thames, but there was no abbey there. Only an Underground station that bore the name. He typed BLACKFRIARS into Google search and read what he found on one of the sites.