The King's Deception

He stepped to the oval’s center, glancing up at vine and scroll decorations that ornamented the columns. Murals of angels were painted above each support, more colorful paintings in the upper arches.

“This is how it was found,” Mathews said. “Luckily, SIS was the first to enter and it has remained sealed since the 1970s.”

A stone sarcophagus stood thirty feet away.

Antrim walked close and saw that its lid was gone.

He glanced at Mathews.

“By all means,” the older man said. “Have a look.”

* * *

Malone continued to follow the electrical cables, which eventually left the river chamber and wound a path through another narrow tunnel back into the earth. Not a long way. Maybe twenty feet. Eventually, he noted, as the river rose, its flow would creep inside. But — thanks to a gradual incline — not all the way to its end.

Which came at an archway with no door.

Beyond he spotted a darkened chamber about thirty feet across and another doorway, bright with light.

He heard familiar voices.

Mathews and Antrim.

He found his gun and entered the first room, careful with his steps, creeping across the pavement to the second doorway.

Three pillars supported the ceiling of the empty rectangle, offering some cover. He leaned against the wall and drew short breaths through his nostrils.

Then peered inside.

* * *

Ian led the way down the tunnel, Gary close at his heels. They were following the electrical cables and lights, as that was what Mathews had told Malone to do during the telephone conversation at The Goring. Gary had led him to the metal door, describing the older man who’d been waiting earlier.

Whom he knew.

Thomas Mathews.

He heard a rush of water, growing louder, and found its source just past the place where a metal door hung open. He knew about the Fleet River that ran beneath London, and had even explored the tunnels a couple of times. He recalled a posted warning. High tide came fast and flooded the chambers, so the risk of drowning was great. Now he stood on an iron bridge that spanned the flow, water rushing past its supports, rising rapidly inside a channeled path. The surge vibrated everything beneath his feet.

“We need to stay out of that,” Gary said.

He agreed.

They kept moving, entering another open arch, its metal door swung open, following the lights to a small chamber. The electrical cables snaked a path down the wall, then across the floor into another room.

Voices disturbed the silence.

Gary eased to one side of the far doorway.

Ian fell in behind him.

Both listened.

* * *

Antrim stared into the sarcophagus. Nothing elaborate or ornate adorned its exterior. No inscriptions, no artwork. Just plain stone.

And inside only dust and bones.

“The body is that of a man who lived to be in his seventies,” Mathews said. “Forensic analysis confirmed that. Thanks to your violation of Henry VIII’s tomb, we obtained a sample from the great king himself.”

“Glad I could be of service.”

Mathews seemed not to like the sarcasm. “DNA analysis between the remains there and here showed that this man shared a paternal genetic link with Henry VIII.”

“So this is what’s left of Henry FitzRoy’s son. The imposter. The man who was Elizabeth I.”

“There is no doubt now. The legend is real. What was once a fanciful tale to the people in and around Bisley is now fact. Of course, the legend had done no real harm—”

“Until I came along.”

Mathews nodded. “Something like that.”

What Robert Cecil had written was true. The imposter had indeed been buried beneath Blackfriars, and the dead Elizabeth, a mere child of twelve, moved to Westminster and laid to rest with her sister.

Incredible.

“This room, when found,” Mathews said, “also contained trunks of gold and silver coin. Billions of pounds’ worth. We melted it down and returned it to the state treasury, where it belonged.”

“Didn’t keep any for yourself?”

“Hardly.”

He caught the indignation.

“If you would, please, I’d like Robert Cecil’s journal.”

Antrim slid off the backpack and handed over the book.

“I saw it earlier,” Mathews said.

“I didn’t want Daedalus to have it. And what about them? Are they going to be a problem?”

Mathews shook his head. “Nothing I cannot handle.”

He was curious. “What are you going to do with this place?”

“Once this notebook is destroyed, this becomes just another innocuous archaeological site. Its meaning will never be known.”

“King’s Deception would have worked.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Antrim, you are correct. We could have never allowed the truth about Elizabeth to be known.”

He was pleased to know that he’d been right.

“I do have a question,” Mathews said. “You maneuvered Cotton Malone to London, with his son, for a specific purpose. I managed to learn that purpose. The boy is your natural son. What do you plan to do with that situation?”

“How could you possibly know any of that?”

“Fifty years in the intelligence business.”

He decided to be honest. “I’ve decided having a son is a pain in the ass.”

“Children can be difficult. Still, he is your boy.”