word.
The King smiled at him. “You know you don’t have to call me that, Thomas. Least not when we are alone.”
The young man felt slightly foolish. “Yes, Uncle.”
The King looked again through the window, his eyes on the forecourt. Though the recent ceremony had passed without a hitch, his mind was troubled.
“I’m afraid, Thomas, that once again I must ask too much of you.”
The King turned toward his nephew.
“I assume your father has already given you the gist,” the King said. “You are aware, Thomas, of our friend’s claim regarding the two politicians?”
The young man stood rigidly with his hands down by his sides. “I know only of the claim; I d-didn’t realise the findings have been c-confirmed.”
“Well, Thomas, I’m afraid they have; Bridges gave me the news not two hours ago. Frankly, I think he seemed a little reluctant to give it.”
Again the prince hesitated. “Well, he always did have your b-best interests at h-heart.”
The King smiled again. “So he keeps telling me.”
The young man watched as the King slowly began to pace around his desk. His outward appearance was as smart as ever, but today Thomas noticed a certain remoteness in him. As an Englishman, he knew the man’s past, but as a relative, he knew the man himself. He had encountered sorrow, and not just recently. He had lost his wife, the would-be queen, within a year of losing his mother. The young man had never seen him show much emotion.
Today was no exception.
“How about the m-motive?”
The King walked slowly around the desk. “Thomas, before the funeral I asked Dr Grant to use his contacts in the profession to carry out various tests on the condition of my father at the time of his death. It was not until today that he received the results.”
Thomas wondered where this was going. As a minor royal he was used to being on the fringe of the ins and outs of royal protocol, but since graduating from Sandhurst, his role had changed beyond recognition.
To the outside world, he was a captain in the army. On the inside, his role had no formal job description.
He was, in the words of his father, the protector.
“Despite our strongest hopes and prayers, the tests proved conclusive,” the King began. “Your grandfather, Tom, was murdered.”
Thomas swallowed, an unavoidable reflex. It took him several seconds to muster a response. “What happened?”
“We don’t know, at least not entirely,” the King said. “According to our only suspect, he was working on behalf of something called the Sons of York.”
The name meant nothing to Thomas.
“Prior to my father’s death, he received this.” He showed Thomas a piece of paper. “Sadly, Father didn’t tell me about it at the time. Unfortunately we have been unable to establish either when or from where it was sent.”
Thomas accepted the paper and scanned the text. It was an A4 sheet and typewritten.
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by these Sons of York
“Shakespeare,” he said. “It’s been changed. These Sons, instead of this s-sun.”
“Exactly.”
The young man was confused. “Who are they?”
The King laughed, only without humour. “Legend has it, letters of this kind have been sent to members of our family throughout history. This is the first I’ve seen.”
The King turned toward the desk.
“Until recently I had no knowledge of the matter whatsoever. In truth, I had believed the stories to be nothing more than a myth. Hard evidence, sadly, is minimal. I discussed the matter a few days ago with your father. Apparently this is the best we have.”
The King picked up two books from his desk and showed them to Thomas. Neither of them was modern.
“According to this,” the King opened the first book to around the midpoint, “published by a local historian in 1712, the writer talks about the existence of the Sons of York as far back as the 1600s. This man, apparently, was their most famous
The King smiled at him. “You know you don’t have to call me that, Thomas. Least not when we are alone.”
The young man felt slightly foolish. “Yes, Uncle.”
The King looked again through the window, his eyes on the forecourt. Though the recent ceremony had passed without a hitch, his mind was troubled.
“I’m afraid, Thomas, that once again I must ask too much of you.”
The King turned toward his nephew.
“I assume your father has already given you the gist,” the King said. “You are aware, Thomas, of our friend’s claim regarding the two politicians?”
The young man stood rigidly with his hands down by his sides. “I know only of the claim; I d-didn’t realise the findings have been c-confirmed.”
“Well, Thomas, I’m afraid they have; Bridges gave me the news not two hours ago. Frankly, I think he seemed a little reluctant to give it.”
Again the prince hesitated. “Well, he always did have your b-best interests at h-heart.”
The King smiled again. “So he keeps telling me.”
The young man watched as the King slowly began to pace around his desk. His outward appearance was as smart as ever, but today Thomas noticed a certain remoteness in him. As an Englishman, he knew the man’s past, but as a relative, he knew the man himself. He had encountered sorrow, and not just recently. He had lost his wife, the would-be queen, within a year of losing his mother. The young man had never seen him show much emotion.
Today was no exception.
“How about the m-motive?”
The King walked slowly around the desk. “Thomas, before the funeral I asked Dr Grant to use his contacts in the profession to carry out various tests on the condition of my father at the time of his death. It was not until today that he received the results.”
Thomas wondered where this was going. As a minor royal he was used to being on the fringe of the ins and outs of royal protocol, but since graduating from Sandhurst, his role had changed beyond recognition.
To the outside world, he was a captain in the army. On the inside, his role had no formal job description.
He was, in the words of his father, the protector.
“Despite our strongest hopes and prayers, the tests proved conclusive,” the King began. “Your grandfather, Tom, was murdered.”
Thomas swallowed, an unavoidable reflex. It took him several seconds to muster a response. “What happened?”
“We don’t know, at least not entirely,” the King said. “According to our only suspect, he was working on behalf of something called the Sons of York.”
The name meant nothing to Thomas.
“Prior to my father’s death, he received this.” He showed Thomas a piece of paper. “Sadly, Father didn’t tell me about it at the time. Unfortunately we have been unable to establish either when or from where it was sent.”
Thomas accepted the paper and scanned the text. It was an A4 sheet and typewritten.
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by these Sons of York
“Shakespeare,” he said. “It’s been changed. These Sons, instead of this s-sun.”
“Exactly.”
The young man was confused. “Who are they?”
The King laughed, only without humour. “Legend has it, letters of this kind have been sent to members of our family throughout history. This is the first I’ve seen.”
The King turned toward the desk.
“Until recently I had no knowledge of the matter whatsoever. In truth, I had believed the stories to be nothing more than a myth. Hard evidence, sadly, is minimal. I discussed the matter a few days ago with your father. Apparently this is the best we have.”
The King picked up two books from his desk and showed them to Thomas. Neither of them was modern.
“According to this,” the King opened the first book to around the midpoint, “published by a local historian in 1712, the writer talks about the existence of the Sons of York as far back as the 1600s. This man, apparently, was their most famous
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