Free The Plantagenet Vendetta by John Paul Davis Page B

be it a trick or the use of a contact lens, the prince, in truth, was unsure.
    “Enough games. Who are you working for?”
    “They can see us. Even now. They’re watching us.”
    Thomas maintained eye contact as the friar tightened his grip on the bars. He considered speaking but for now decided against it. The man’s concentration was resolute and unblinking.
    Almost as though he was looking at a statue.
    Morris moved. “Boo!”
    The prince jumped, only slightly but enough to excite the prisoner.
    “I must say I expected better of you, Captain. A prince of the realm. You are unworthy to be classed in the category of the princes of old.”
    “So you know who I am?”
    “I know many things.”
    Thomas folded his arms, his attention on the man’s torso. There was a tattoo below the left side of his collarbone. It looked like a flower.
    “How long have you had that?”
    No response, just eye contact.
    “Wh-who are you working for?”
    The friar moved closer, his body touching the bars.
    He spat in Thomas’s face.
    The prince remained unmoved. He kept his eyes shut, a reflex from the spit. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the saliva.
    The prisoner placed his head to the bars a second time. “Enjoy yourself, son of Clarence. Soon the rightful inheritors shall return. And my work will just be beginning.”
    Thomas moved closer to the bars, his face almost touching them. He held the prisoner’s gaze.
    The expression in the man’s eyes confirmed his initial suspicions.
    Thomas’s reactions were too fast. The prince placed his hands through the bars, grabbing the prisoner’s upper body.
    The friar was struggling. The strength of his arms caused Morris to leave the floor. With one swift movement, he turned, his back now to the bars.
    “Right, time to drop the charade.”
    All Morris could feel was a hand to his neck and another to his upper body.
    “Who put you up to this?”
    Morris wriggled uncomfortably. Despite the choking sensation, the friar was able to laugh scornfully.
    Thomas held him tightly, his hand restricting his air passages. “Tell me, who are you working for?”
    The prisoner continued to struggle. He laughed, managing little more than a gagging sound against the prince’s firm hand.
    “Tell me who you are working for, and I shall release you.”
    “I do not crave release. Nor do I fear death.”
    Thomas pounded him against the bars, causing red marks to appear on the friar’s back. “You really believe it to be a secret worth dying for?”
    The man struggled to breathe. He fought the feeling of gravity, kicking against the bars. All the while Thomas’s grip remained strong.
    Morris choked. “Talbot.”
    As the kicking became wilder, the prince dropped him to the floor. Morris fell heavily, the impact hardest on his right knee. The sound of squealing aside, the first thing Thomas noticed was a definite change in the atmosphere.
    Gone the resolute hatred and arrogance.
    Replacing it, heavy breathing.
    “Talbot?” Thomas repeated. “J-Jack Talbot?”
    The question went unanswered. He considered asking again, but the prisoner was breathless.
    At least he had something worth checking.
    The prince straightened his jacket and headed for the door.
    “You will never find them,” the friar said. His voice had changed slightly; without question it was less powerful. Slowly he rose to his feet. As he approached the bars, he gestured the prince to approach.
    Tentatively the prince came nearer.
    “Beware the Sons of York. Beware!”
    The prince eyed the prisoner for what seemed like a lifetime before turning away, heading through the door.
    “They can see you.”
     
    Back at ground level, the son of the Duke of Clarence marched swiftly along the side of the River Thames, still riled by the recent episode. He got into a black Ford, parked discreetly some twenty metres from the nearest lamppost, and began heading east.
    He looked to his right as he drove. Out of the window,