The Tudor Plot

CHAPTER SEVEN

Malone was familiar with the chopper, a Royal Navy Westland Lynx, and listened as the Rolls-Royce turboshafts drove the swept-tip blades through the afternoon air. The navy had taught him how to fly fighter jets and he’d logged a respectable amount of time in a Tomcat, but he’d never sat behind the controls of a helicopter.

Sir Thomas Mathews, head of the Secret Intelligence Service, had transported them to an airfield where the chopper had waited. They’d made the eighty-mile journey from London to Salisbury in a little under an hour, skirting the sloping hills and tree-fringed meadows of the Wiltshire region, eventually overflying the magnificent Salisbury Cathedral.

The town itself was ancient, lined with thickly built streets and aging architecture that conveyed, even from the air, an overpowering ancient spirit. North of town center sat the university, a collage of limestone buildings intermingled among stately oak and walnut trees. The pilot expertly landed in the middle of a deserted athletic field. A waiting car drove them across campus to a three-story building with a crumbling façade veined with ivy. Pale gray carvings spanning the top cast an appearance of tattered lace. Workers were busy raking the surrounding yard clean of autumn leaves.

Britain’s top spymaster had said little on the trip.

And Malone had kept his mouth shut, too.

Inside, Mathews led them to a second-floor office where a gangly, bearded man with oversized ears sat behind a green metal desk littered with books. He introduced himself as Professor Goulding. Malone noted diplomas on the wall that indicated doctorates in history from both Cambridge and Oxford.

“I understand that William provided you photos of a cauldron,” Mathews said. “After you met with the queen about her … family situation.”

“You have spies within the palace?”

“How else would we ever know what happens there?”

“I thought you were responsible for foreign matters. MI5 handles the domestic stuff.”

“That depends on the nature of that stuff.”

Mathews motioned to Goulding, who brought up another photo of the cauldron on a computer screen.

But he wanted to know, “Have you spoken with Stephanie?”

Mathews shook his head. “And neither did she show me the courtesy of contacting me before dispatching you.”

“More spies? With more information?”

“A necessity that has allowed me to survive in this business for a long time.”

Mathews was legendary. Only sixteen men had led Great Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, responsible for all foreign intelligence matters since the start of the 20th century. Mathews was the latest and the longest. A Cold War veteran. Feared by the Soviets. Respected by Washington. And though Malone had worked with MI6 several times before, never had the head man himself been involved.

Which spoke volumes.

“Tell him,” Mathews said to their host, motioning with his cane.

“This cauldron once occupied a prominent position at a pagan altar,” Goulding said. “There are many similar ones in museums, but this is a particularly well-preserved specimen. These bowls served a dual purpose.”

The professor’s finger touched the screen.

“These plates are our first history books. I’ve seen others that record a battle or some catastrophic occurrence. This one details the end of a ruler’s reign.”

Goulding traced the color image on the screen with his index finger. “Look here. The king dies in battle. Then his warriors pay tribute to him with trumpets and ceremony. Even the animals are saddened by his death.”

The academician clicked on a smaller image at the right side of the screen, and an enlarged picture of one of the etched panels appeared.

“This plate is the key,” Mathews said. “It’s the one missing off the bowl. The one currently located in the Icelandic National Museum in Reykjavik. By itself it’s meaningless. But together, with the rest of the images, the story becomes complete.”

Malone remembered what William had written. “And since Yourstone photographed that Iceland image, and has the actual cauldron, that means he has all of the pieces to the puzzle.”

“Which is why you and I are talking,” Mathews said.

Then he realized. “I assume my visit to Yourstone created a problem?”

“An understatement, but accurate. It jeopardized over a year’s worth of covert surveillance.”

Which explained why the head man was here.

Goulding stood from the computer and stepped across the office to a row of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, whose shelves sagged from their load. He bent and retrieved a leather-bound volume on the bottom row, gently parting its pages. After a moment of careful leafing he said, “Let me read you something. I think it will explain things clearly.”

Malone said, “A mystery to the world, a grave for Arthur.”

Goulding smiled. “From an old Welsh poem. And quite apt.”

“Are you saying Arthur was buried at Glastonbury Abbey and his grave discovered in 1191?”

Goulding gently laid the open book on the corner of the desk. “A grave was excavated in 1191 and the bones of a man and woman were found. That much history accepts, since there are at least five separate accounts of what happened during the exhumation. They differ in detail, but the general thrust is similar. The bodies were sunk deep in the ground, which was unusual for graves at the time. As you might expect, tools then were not the finest, and digging deep would have been difficult. But Arthur was the sworn enemy of the Saxons. He almost succeeded in stopping their steady intrusion over Britain. The Saxons would have relished in ravaging his grave, so burying him deep made sense.”

“You believe Arthur to be an actual historical figure?” he asked.

“Without a doubt. He was a Celt who fought invading Saxons. The best that can be determined is that he lived in the later part of the 6th century, dying around 537 to 542 CE.”

“He was a king?” he asked.

“There was no such concept then. It would be another 300 years before some semblance of kingship, as we know it, formed. Arthur was Dux Bellorum. Battle Leader. A warrior. He fought twelve battles we know of. Supposedly, after the Battle of Camlann he was carried off by his cousin, Morgan, to the Isle of Avalon, where his wounds were mended. But, in fact, he died and was buried there.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Malone asked.

Goulding motioned to the screen. “The answer is here. The plates on the bowl depict exactly what happened. There is a wattle-and-daub church in the background, which I recognize as the Old Church at Glastonbury. This cauldron is a record of those events.”