The Tudor Plot A Cotton Malone Novella - By Steve Berry Page 0,32

the Saxe-Coburgs. Thanks to Dickie, here, our tolerance level among the public is virtually nonexistent. No. You will do nothing that jeopardizes the succession to Albert.”

The queen shifted in the wheelchair. “Your father wishes never again to lay eyes upon you.”

“If that is my only punishment, I can endure the loss.”

“And you will be removed from the civil list. No more money.”

She shrugged. “My husband is wealthy.”

“Your in-laws are traitors.”

“But that, too, will remain our secret,” Yourstone said. “Now, won’t it?”

The queen said nothing, but the look of contempt on her face was piercing. Richard retreated to the far side of the room.

Something else Sun Tzu had taught 2,500 years ago occurred to him. Know the enemy and know yourself and in a hundred battles you will never be defeated.

So true.

He was home free.

“Richard, push me from this room before I vomit,” the queen said. “You can perhaps be forgiven for your idiocy. Your soul is totally without malice. But this devil, your sister, and her traitor of a father-in-law cannot.”

The prince grasped the wheelchair.

“You will both remove yourself from the palace immediately and neither of you will ever set foot here again.”

“Until you’re dead,” Eleanor said.

“No, Ellie,” Richard said.

The prince’s eyes focused tight.

“That order will remain in my reign, and in my son’s and his children’s thereafter. That much I swear will be done.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Malone stared into the lit room, his gaze focusing on what looked like an enormous high-backed couch. He stepped close and caressed the top edge. “Bronze?”

“Celts were good with metal,” Goulding said.

Its blackened face was embossed with dancing figures and horses pulling carts. The workmanship was intricate and had survived intact.

Lying across the couch were the remains of a skeleton.

From end to end the figure appeared about six feet tall. Only bones remained. Bits of cloth lay scattered among the bones—perhaps, he thought, burial robes long gone to dust. A gold ornament rested where the neck had once existed. Malone suspended his hand above the band. The diameter spread the width of his extended fingers. “He was a big man.”

Malone knelt before the bier and noticed that it rested on eight metal statues, each a woman, bare-breasted, atop a unicycle, the wheel of each cycle forming a caster. The design was ingenious and sophisticated. He traced the outline of lettering with his gloved hands.

“Latin,” Goulding said. “It’s a hope the deceased finds the other world and is happy. Only leaders were given this honor.”

He studied the rest of the room. Dark shadows signaled more objects. On the far side, to the right of the entrance, sat a wagon made of what appeared to be wood. He stepped toward it and saw iron wheels festooned with bronze chains and figurines. Like the couch, the workmanship was astonishing.

“Probably ash, elm, or maple,” Goulding said. “I’ve read about these. Seen drawings. Bits and pieces have been found. But nothing has survived whole. This is quite an archaeological discovery.”

The cart bed was piled with bowls, plates, platters, and knives.

“What’s the point of the tableware?” he asked.

“Necessities of the afterlife. Celts believed in an afterworld. Death was but a brief pause in an endless cycle of rebirth. So their dead were equipped for the long voyage. The grander the deceased, the richer the grave.” The professor pointed. “Bowls and plates were for eating, knives for hunting.” Two rows of ornamented drinking horns hung from iron chains. One horn was larger than the other six. “A mighty cup for Arthur, the rest for his companions.”

“Cup of what?”

“Over there.”

In the remaining corner sat a bronze cauldron. Its handles were crafted as lions, but the images were distorted, more caricatures than faithful animal representations. He followed Goulding over to it. Sediment filled the inside, black and hard as stone.

“Fermented honey mead. A common drink for Celts in the 6th century. The drinking horns would have been used to empty this cauldron. Can’t go to the afterworld thirsty.”

He knelt down and studied the odd-shaped lions.

“Celtic representations,” Goulding said. “There were no lions in Britain. They would have learned about them from Romans. These are the artist’s imagination at work.”

“You know this stuff.”

“It’s my world. Finding a tomb, like this, is the coup of a lifetime.”

He noticed etchings in the side of the cauldron.

Goulding bent down close. “Incredible. It’s a battle history. Mount Baden, Cat Coit Celidon, City of Legion. Those are all places where Arthur supposedly fought Saxons. The last line speaks of gueith Camlann, the Strife of Camlann, where history notes Arthur supposedly