Defender of the realm, p.1
Defender of the Realm, page 1
For Anna and Melanie
Title Page
Dedication
1 Breakout
2 The Ceremony of the Keys
3 The Heir and the Spare
4 The Keeper of the Scale
5 The Chain of Destiny
6 Death Among the Stones
7 “Your Majesty”
8 The Secret Tunnel
9 The Other Tower
10 Intruders
11 Made in the United Kingdom
12 Blue Blood
13 The Real Crown Jewels
14 There’s Something in the Water
15 The Shrine of the Confessor
16 Rooftop Rescue
17 The Lost Crown
18 Around Britain by Flying Horse
19 How the Other Half Lives
20 The Fire Beneath the Castle
21 Eruption
22 A Night Out
23 Next in Line
24 Unconquered
25 Coronation Day
26 Get Me to the Abbey on Time
27 God Save the King
28 Battle Royal
29 Uneasy Lies the Head That Wears a Crown
30 Traitors’ Gate
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Copyright
Somewhere between five and eight. That was how many bones Alfie was sure he was about to break as he lost his grip on the drainpipe, fell ten feet, and landed butt-first in the flower bed outside the prison walls.
Alfie was skinny, with thick mousy-brown hair that always seemed to curl down over his face, no matter how much gel he put in it. His eyes were a deep sea green, which hit you more in person than it did in photos. Everyone said he got them from his grandmother. Alfie wiggled his toes and was happy to discover that he could still feel his legs. He sat up, rubbed the back of his neck, and wiped the mud from his watch. It was a little after nine thirty p.m. Right on schedule. He had planned this breakout down to the minute. If his calculations were correct, then he wouldn’t even be missed for—
“STAY WHERE YOU ARE!”
Then again, Alfie’s plans had a habit of going wrong. The gruff voice boomed down from the window he’d just climbed—well, fallen—from. By the time Alfie had scrambled to his feet, he could hear heavy footsteps somewhere inside the cell block, coming his way.
The Man in Black, thought Alfie. There’s no way he’s stopping me this time. No way.
Alfie sprinted across the lawn toward the street. Vaulting over a low brick wall, he caught a glimpse of the huge arch of Wembley Stadium glowing in the distance. As much as he hated the prison, he had to admit its position on a hill just outside London gave it some spectacular views. Alfie risked a look back, just in time to see the dark-suited, broad-shouldered man with neatly clipped hair hurdle the wall and tear after him.
“STOP!”
Alfie sped up, legs already on fire with the effort, as he flashed past cars parked along the narrow, tree-lined street. But the Man in Black was closing on him, fast.
“I SAID, STOP!”
Alfie skidded on a patch of leaves and veered into a park that had appeared to his left. He might not be as fast as his pursuer, but the night was on his side. He pushed through some bushes and crouched behind an oak tree. Pressing his face against the cold, wet bark, he ignored his desperate need to gasp down air.
Branches snapped nearby as the Man in Black bulldozed his way through the scrub. Alfie stayed still and watched him barrel out of the trees, grumbling and cursing with every sapling that whipped across his face. Finally free of their grasp, the Man in Black spun around three hundred and sixty degrees in a desperate search for his prey, and then ran on in the opposite direction.
Alfie finally sucked in a super-sized lungful of air. That was too close.
A few minutes later, double-checking that no one was on his trail, Alfie crossed over the Station Road bridge. A train thundered below him on its way out of the city. Every night he would lie awake in his cell listening to the distant rumble from the tracks and dream about hopping onto a train car one day and just seeing where it took him. Mountains would be good, or a forest or lonely moorland. Alfie had always liked the wilderness. Somewhere remote where he could be himself and—
A bus trundled past, faces gazing blankly from the windows. Alfie snapped out of it. What was he thinking? There were too many cameras on the station, too many people. Besides, he had his mission. It was decided. He needed to focus.
Alfie picked up the pace, fished a crumpled baseball cap out of his jacket pocket, and pulled it over his head. The one thing that he’d learned about disguises over the years was that less is more. Forget false beards and noses; the trick was not to draw too much attention to yourself. Blend in; be inconspicuous. It was Alfie’s favorite word.
He hurried across the bridge and onto the bustling main street. It was a world away from his usual surroundings, but he was enjoying himself. It was just so good to be out. Alfie broke into a jog, sticking as much as he could to the shadows, avoiding the late-night shoppers who passed him by without a glance. And then suddenly, there it was in front of him: a modest little building with a bright neon sign in the window. His goal—the end to his quest. Alfie reached for the door handle and stopped in his tracks.
Snipers.
Half a dozen of them, sitting inside. They were dug in around a table, idly adjusting their telescopic lenses, no doubt swapping war stories as they waited for their target. For him. Alfie realized his mistake, but it was too late. He shouldn’t have stopped walking; he should have just breezed past, not gawked like a dumb kid straight at the enemy. As bad luck would have it, one of the snipers—bearded and craggy, with all manner of equipment draped over his shoulders and shoved into a utility belt—glanced up and locked eyes with Alfie. He couldn’t hear him through the glass of the door, but Alfie could read his lips well enough.
“THERE HE IS!”
Mission aborted.
For the second time that night, Alfie ran for his life. But this time there was nowhere to hide; the parade of shops was too well lit. And he was still tired from his footrace with the Man in Black.
Behind him, the snipers piled out of the building, readying their weapons, unhooking tripods, bringing scopes to their eyes as they gave chase.
Alfie plunged across the road, threading the needle between a bus and a cab. Horns blared and air brakes hissed. He couldn’t afford to give them a clear shot. These were pros—all they needed was one split-second chance and he was history.
On the other side of the road, Alfie spotted an alleyway between a pub and a cell phone shop. He ducked down it, but there was no telling where it led, and he could hear the snipers’ shouts not far behind. Then he saw it: large, square, and green, with a hinged rubber lid.
No choice.
Alfie hauled himself up and into the trash bin, slamming the lid down behind him. It stank of rotten food, and Alfie tried to pretend it didn’t smell like someone had been sick into it as well. He froze as the heavy footfalls and breathless yells of the snipers approached. He closed his eyes and prayed. Walk past, walk past.
Footsteps came and went. Then … silence. They’d gone.
Alfie was desperate to escape his foul hiding place, but he forced himself to wait another full minute before he eased the lid up and peeked out.
FLASH!
Light exploded all around him as the bearded sniper took a clean head shot. Alfie screamed and flew back, a thousand supernovas in his eyes. He looked up, dazed, as the sniper leaned in for another shot, tearing back the trash bin’s lid and pushing the long lens of his camera into Alfie’s face.
“Say cheese, Your Highness!”
Prince Alfred Henry Alexander Louis, Prince of Wales and heir to the throne of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, stared up from the depths of the trash bin and gave the paparazzi photographer a big, sarcastic thumbs-up.
“Happy now?” Alfie couldn’t even summon up much anger. This photographer was just doing his job.
“What do you think?” said the rat-faced little man. “Who wants a photo of the future king of England hiding in the trash? That’ll be ten thousand quid, thank you very much.” The photographer got a whiff of the bin’s interior and recoiled. “Phwoar. Have you been sick in there, Your Highness?”
Suddenly the photographer was hauled off his feet. It was the Man in Black, otherwise known as Brian, Alfie’s royal protection officer. For once, Alfie was pleased to see him.
Brian manhandled the indignant sniper away with one shove of his mighty palm. “That’s enough—you’ve had your fun.”
The photographer didn’t put up much of a fight—one glance at Alfie’s bodyguard told him that he was ex–Special Forces. But then, why bother? He’d gotten what he came for. He holstered his camera and sauntered off, pulling out his phone, no doubt to start the bidding for his exclusive snap of the prince in the trash.
Satisfied that the threat was gone, Brian turned back to Alfie and fixed him with a weary stare.
“OK, Brian, you found me. Your turn to hide. Shall I count to twenty?”
Brian sighed. He wasn’t in the mood for Alfie’s jokes tonight. “What were you popping out for this time? Curry? Fish and chips?”
“Pizza, actually. Ambrogio’s does the best pepperoni in town.”
“It also happens to be where all the paps go to eat every Thursday night.” Brian snorted.
“You’re annoyed with me, aren’t you? Making you run around like that,” said Alfie.
“I was. Until I saw you hiding in a trash bin—that’s cheered me right up.”
“Suppose it’s back to prison, then, is it?” Alfie extended his hand.
But Brian backed off, holding his nose. “If you’re talking about school, then, yeah, it is. Can’t wait to see how you explain this one to the headmaster tomorrow,” he laughed.
Alfie tried to clamber out of the garbage, but Brian pushed him back again.
“Hold up. You’re not getting in my car smelling like that.”
“I can’t walk back,” Alfie pleaded. “There’ll be snipers everywhere by now.”
Brian furrowed his brow and looked up and down the alleyway. “Good point. Hold your breath.”
“Why?”
Alfie ducked as Brian slammed the lid back down over him.
“BRIAN!” Alfie yelled from the darkness.
“Put a sock in it. There’s a good lad. You never know, you might get lucky and find some pizza in there.”
The bodyguard grinned as he wheeled the bin off, whistling “God Save the King.”
If this was the best the Tower of London could do, then she wanted her money back.
Hayley Hicks tucked a stray frizz of hair behind her ear and flipped her jacket collar up against the icy drizzle. She had no idea that in a matter of minutes, her life was going to change forever.
Hayley had been watching a soldier in a red tunic and tall bearskin cap holding a rifle and doing a whole lot of nothing for what felt like decades. Well, not exactly nothing: He was standing still, guarding a big oak gate beneath a hulking old tower. Hayley wasn’t even sure the guy was blinking, and she spent a minute or two pretending she was in a staring contest with him before giving up. All right, you win, she thought, and sighed. This was no way for any self-respecting girl to spend a Thursday night: stuck with a bunch of tourists outside a moldy old castle, getting cold and wet. She wiggled her toes to make sure they hadn’t dropped off, then stamped her feet for good measure.
“Stop fussing, child. It’ll be worth it, you’ll see.” Hayley’s grandmother scowled up from her wheelchair, pretending to be annoyed.
“It’s all right for you, in your little cocoon on wheels,” Hayley shot back. But she was smiling. “I’m dying of hypothermia here, Gran.”
She’d made sure the wheelchair was packed with blankets before they’d set off for her gran’s seventy-seventh birthday treat: a trip to the Tower of London to see the Crown Jewels. There was even a thermos, a spare pair of socks, and an extra-woolly hat in her backpack. Not to mention her gran’s medication, all in neatly labeled bottles. It had taken Hayley the better part of three months to save up for today—lunch, tickets, and taxis that could take a wheelchair didn’t come cheaply in London—but she was glad she’d done it. Hayley hadn’t seen her gran so perky in years—she hadn’t stopped her commentary about all things royal (her favorite subject of all time) and historic (second-favorite subject of all time) for the entire day.
But the best part of the trip was still to come. Hayley had secretly booked tickets for something called the Ceremony of the Keys. Tonight they would have the honor of being in the select group of tourists permitted to watch as the Crown Jewels were locked safely inside for the night. Hayley had never heard of the ceremony before she started doing her research, but her gran had practically leapt out of her chair when Hayley surprised her with the tickets.
“Seven hundred years, Hales! They’ve been stomping around locking this place up in the same way for seven hundred years—every night, come wind, shine, snow, or blow.” Her gran had a weird saying for pretty much everything.
“Wow, really?” Hayley was only pretending to be interested, but her gran didn’t notice.
“Well, that’s a lie—they did miss one night in the war when a bomb landed there.”
Hayley figured it would take more than a bomb to scare her gran. She’d emigrated from Jamaica in the 1950s, married a white man when everyone still thought that was somehow wrong, became one of the first woman Tube drivers, got a degree in history from the Open University at the same time, and generally packed more into her life than most people would ever manage. She was not a woman afraid to speak her mind, and Hayley just prayed they’d make it through the ceremony without her gran shouting out something “helpful” to the soldiers. She’d already made eyes at the guard at the doorway and said, “Hey, handsome, give us a twirl!” He’d stared back without blinking.
In fact, speaking of ceremonies, when was this thing going to kick off? Hayley glanced at her watch and—
“HALT!”
The sentry whipped his rifle from his shoulder, the bayonet glistening from the drizzle, and pointed it squarely at five new soldiers who were marching up to the gate. They stopped, as one. Three of the soldiers held their own rifles, while a fourth carried a lantern that cast an eerie glow up the high stone walls. The man they were escorting was short and tubby with a bushy ginger beard. Hayley would have called him a beefeater, but her gran whispered that his proper title was actually the chief yeoman warder and that, no, he wasn’t wearing a dress; it was a tunic. His dress (tunic, whatever) was black with red trim and had the letters HR emblazoned on the front. Gran told her they stood for Henry, Rex—Latin for King Henry. The chief yeoman warder carried a sword sheathed under his belt, and from one hand dangled a bunch of long iron keys.
“Who comes there?” barked the sentry.
“The keys!” came the reply from somewhere under the chief yeoman warder’s beard.
“Whose keys?”
“King Henry’s keys!”
After seven hundred years, you’d think they’d know that! thought Hayley, but she kept her mouth shut and looked to her gran, who was entranced, gripping the wheelchair armrests with tight little hands.
Satisfied, the sentry shouldered his rifle and stood at attention. “Pass, King Henry’s keys, and all’s well.”
“Escort to the keys, by the center, quick march!” yelled the sergeant.
And off they went, ferrying the chief yeoman warder past the sentry.
Another beefeater had now appeared and was ushering the tourists under the arch of the nasty-sounding “Bloody Tower” and onto Tower Green, where they would witness the conclusion of the ceremony.
Its slick, wet cobbles lit only by a handful of lamps, the central courtyard looked quite different from the bustling square in which Hayley and her gran had eaten their sandwiches earlier that afternoon. An unseen raven croaked from the battlements. Hayley shivered. It was here, on the executioner’s block only yards away, roped off and marked with a plaque, that several important men and women had lost their heads. Hayley’s gran told her that the ghost of one of them—Anne Boleyn—was said to still roam the courtyard at night, carrying her own head!
The rest of the Tower Guard were waiting on the wide central steps. Hayley wheeled her gran to the front so she could see. The chief yeoman warder held his hat in the air and bellowed to the sky, “God preserve King Henry!”
“Amen!” shouted the guards in unison.
“Amen!” added her gran enthusiastically, drawing a ripple of giggles from the group. Hayley smiled and tried not to go red.
The clock tower chimed the hour—ten o’clock. Hayley had to admit, the precision of the timing was impressive. A bugler started playing, the lonely notes echoing off the high walls around them. The chief yeoman warder returned his hat to his head and hefted his big key ring as he took the last few steps toward the Jewel House door. At least we’re nearly done here, thought Hayley. She was mentally preparing herself for the long taxi and train ride back home to their apartment.
“Wonderful, isn’t it, Hales?” Hayley’s gran whispered. “Really makes history come alive.”
Hayley was just about to reply when things started to get monumentally strange.
A sound of rushing air, like the whine of a falling bomb, whistled across the courtyard, and a large, dark figure thumped onto the ground no more than forty feet from where they were standing. The impact was hard enough to make Hayley’s teeth click together. Several soldiers dropped their rifles with a clatter. A middle-aged Japanese woman in the tour party shrieked and put her hand to her mouth.
