tracks continued ahead.
Was he being led?
The tunnel snaked a path deeper into the mountain. Their level changed twice, and the route rose steadily. The passage ended in another cathedral-like chamber, this one with a towering ceiling of jagged rock cast in a bluish tint by steaming halogen floods. A stone plinth dominated the center, about twenty feet square. Celtic symbols decorated the edges, along with more Latin letters.
But it was the bodies that drew their attention. Three men. Dressed in heavy coats and boots. Bullet holes to the head.
“Now you can be worried,” he said.
But he wasn’t surprised. The mess had to be cleaned. Nothing could be left.
“That’s horrible,” Goulding said.
Thanks to the cold, it was hard to tell how long they’d been dead.
He turned his attention to the chamber, concerned that they may not be alone. But they were too far involved now to turn back.
Had that been the idea?
“Is this Arthur’s grave?” he asked.
Goulding knelt before the plinth. “The writing talks of Christ, the Virgin, and the sanctity of a sovereign. But Celts never would have buried a chieftain in this manner. Their graves are more personal. Intimate.”
His internal clock told him they’d left Keflavik three hours ago.
“Look over there,” the professor said.
He saw it, too.
Another power cable, disappearing into a wall cleave. They moved closer and examined the exit, then he led the way inside. Twenty feet and they came to a man-made doorway, created from block façades carved into the rock. Celtic designs decorated its base.
The chamber beyond was lit.
They entered.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Yourstone made his way into the castle. He’d been summoned earlier, surprised that the queen was now west of London, at Windsor. Once the massive fortress had been her favorite retreat, but as Parkinson’s slowly consumed her muscles it had become increasingly difficult for her to travel in comfort. Nonetheless, for some reason the court had fled the city and was now in residence at a place royalty had continuously occupied since the time of William the Conqueror.
He was still dismayed over the events of yesterday. News reports continued to speak of an errant military drone plunging into the Thames. The military had accepted full responsibility. Some members of Parliament were calling for an investigation.
But he doubted that would occur.
Whoever was controlling the spin of this story would squelch any official inquiries. Something bad was happening. He needed details. But Eleanor had not returned to the town house, and his attempts to telephone the voice he’d many times spoken with had been futile. Andrew had proven the most annoying. Unaware of the connection between the missile and Albert, his son had pressed for the details of how he would become king.
But there was none to tell.
“Lord Yourstone.”
He stopped at the mention of his name and turned to see Richard strolling down a carpet runner that bisected the wide loggia. The prince was dressed casually, as there was no danger of a prying press here.
“I need to speak with you.”
Concern filled the heir’s face.
He was led into a nearby parlor, the room paneled with beveled glass windows. Richard closed the door behind them.
Yourstone wanted to know, “What is this about? I was summoned here with no notice of why.”
“You are to tell me the truth. I will not tolerate any lies. Did you conspire to murder Albert?”
The question confirmed his fears of what had failed at the Tower. “Are you mad?”
“Do not anger me. Answer the question.”
He grabbed his riddled composure and calmed himself. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Mother believes you are conspiring with my sister to usurp the Crown. I cannot believe that you would ever do such a thing. Tell me, please, that it is not so.”
Richard was being his usual naïve self. But he had to learn what he could. So he asked, “You must tell me what is going on. It sounds
Was he being led?
The tunnel snaked a path deeper into the mountain. Their level changed twice, and the route rose steadily. The passage ended in another cathedral-like chamber, this one with a towering ceiling of jagged rock cast in a bluish tint by steaming halogen floods. A stone plinth dominated the center, about twenty feet square. Celtic symbols decorated the edges, along with more Latin letters.
But it was the bodies that drew their attention. Three men. Dressed in heavy coats and boots. Bullet holes to the head.
“Now you can be worried,” he said.
But he wasn’t surprised. The mess had to be cleaned. Nothing could be left.
“That’s horrible,” Goulding said.
Thanks to the cold, it was hard to tell how long they’d been dead.
He turned his attention to the chamber, concerned that they may not be alone. But they were too far involved now to turn back.
Had that been the idea?
“Is this Arthur’s grave?” he asked.
Goulding knelt before the plinth. “The writing talks of Christ, the Virgin, and the sanctity of a sovereign. But Celts never would have buried a chieftain in this manner. Their graves are more personal. Intimate.”
His internal clock told him they’d left Keflavik three hours ago.
“Look over there,” the professor said.
He saw it, too.
Another power cable, disappearing into a wall cleave. They moved closer and examined the exit, then he led the way inside. Twenty feet and they came to a man-made doorway, created from block façades carved into the rock. Celtic designs decorated its base.
The chamber beyond was lit.
They entered.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Yourstone made his way into the castle. He’d been summoned earlier, surprised that the queen was now west of London, at Windsor. Once the massive fortress had been her favorite retreat, but as Parkinson’s slowly consumed her muscles it had become increasingly difficult for her to travel in comfort. Nonetheless, for some reason the court had fled the city and was now in residence at a place royalty had continuously occupied since the time of William the Conqueror.
He was still dismayed over the events of yesterday. News reports continued to speak of an errant military drone plunging into the Thames. The military had accepted full responsibility. Some members of Parliament were calling for an investigation.
But he doubted that would occur.
Whoever was controlling the spin of this story would squelch any official inquiries. Something bad was happening. He needed details. But Eleanor had not returned to the town house, and his attempts to telephone the voice he’d many times spoken with had been futile. Andrew had proven the most annoying. Unaware of the connection between the missile and Albert, his son had pressed for the details of how he would become king.
But there was none to tell.
“Lord Yourstone.”
He stopped at the mention of his name and turned to see Richard strolling down a carpet runner that bisected the wide loggia. The prince was dressed casually, as there was no danger of a prying press here.
“I need to speak with you.”
Concern filled the heir’s face.
He was led into a nearby parlor, the room paneled with beveled glass windows. Richard closed the door behind them.
Yourstone wanted to know, “What is this about? I was summoned here with no notice of why.”
“You are to tell me the truth. I will not tolerate any lies. Did you conspire to murder Albert?”
The question confirmed his fears of what had failed at the Tower. “Are you mad?”
“Do not anger me. Answer the question.”
He grabbed his riddled composure and calmed himself. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Mother believes you are conspiring with my sister to usurp the Crown. I cannot believe that you would ever do such a thing. Tell me, please, that it is not so.”
Richard was being his usual naïve self. But he had to learn what he could. So he asked, “You must tell me what is going on. It sounds
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