Free The Plantagenet Vendetta by John Paul Davis Page A

appeared to be meditating.
    Thomas placed his head to the bars, the cold metal bracing against his forehead. The air was heavy and musty, the smell, he guessed, a depressing combination of steel, a recently painted wall and the man’s natural odour.
    The prince looked at Edmondes. “I need not detain you any longer, sir. You may go about your business.”
    The request made Edmondes uneasy. Metal railings or not, he didn’t feel safe leaving the prince alone.
    “Capt–”
    “I said that will be all, sir.”
    Edmondes nodded and reluctantly left the room, the automatic door closing swiftly behind him.
    Now alone, Thomas concentrated on the cell. A basic single bed had been placed in the corner where two walls met. The paint was fresh, explaining the smell. All of the walls were painted a monotonous grey. The toilet aside, the only other furniture was a small desk in the opposite corner.
    There were no windows, no televisions, no reading material.
    To the prince, looking at the grey walls and panelled lights on the ceiling was like looking into a pit of despair.
    Thomas stood with his arms folded, his eyes on the prisoner.
    “Who are you?”
    He received no response; instead the man continued to sit perfectly still with his back to the railings and his hands joined together.
    “Show yourself!”
    Again there was no sign of acknowledgment. The prince walked to one side of the bars and then back to the other. He stopped again, his head leaning against the railing.
    Even topless the prisoner looked like a monk. Looking him over completely, the humble barefoot appearance and grey trousers – approximately half of the standard uniform of the prison inmates – suited a man of piety. The man carried himself with a certain radiance, even purpose.
    Inwardly, Thomas admired the man’s concentration.
    “Who are you?”
    Again nothing.
    Just complete and utter stillness.
    Thomas stood still for at least another minute. Looking at the man’s back, it was impossible to see whether he was even awake.
    He pretended to leave.
    “I have been waiting a long time for you, Captain. It saddens me that you should give up so quickly.”
    The prince stopped and looked again at the man in the cell.
    Apart from his mouth, the man had still not moved.
    “Didn’t they teach you in the navy that you must stand to face a superior?”
    The prince waited for a reaction, but again none was forthcoming. He swallowed, composing himself.
    “Enough playing games. On your feet. Stand!”
    He shouted the final word, which echoed around the cell. Although the prisoner remained initially unmoved, Thomas noticed a slight turn of his head.
    The figure turned further, revealing other parts of his body. For the first time Thomas could make out facial features. The man appeared younger than he had expected, looking no more than thirty. He was white, slim but well built, and, judging from his accent, a native of the north of England.
    Morris looked at the prince for the first time, his eyes on the uniform. He made lengthy eye contact before looking up at the silver panels on the ceiling.
    “They can see us, you know.”
    Thomas remained unmoved. “Who can?”
    The man rose to his feet and walked toward the bars. “For over five hundred years your ancestors have sat on the throne of England. Even to this day your family refuses to give up what has never been rightfully yours.”
    Thomas folded his arms, confused. “And what might that be?”
    The friar laughed, his smile immediately fading. “Soon the rightful inheritors will at last be restored. Accept it, and you may yet live…”
    The man gripped the bars.
    “Or perhaps you would prefer a different fate.”
    Again Thomas was rendered speechless. He looked the prisoner directly in the eye, the window to the soul. Out of keeping with his hair, the man’s eyes were a deep shade of caramel, broken by red veins, perhaps evidence of an infection. In the light, one eye seemed slightly darker than the other,