Free The Tudor Plot: A Cotton Malone Novella by Steve Berry

confirm the actual father of any heir. Then the whole thing unravels.”
    “Including your position as crown prince.”
    Andrew shrugged. “I was not a king before. I won’t be after. Who cares? As you like to remind me, I have no ambition. Perhaps that’s a good thing? Oh, I just remembered.” His son pointed a finger at him. “You’re the one who cares. So do your duty, Father. For God and country. Then leave my wife alone.”
    Andrew left the room.
    Yourstone did not move from his chair.
    For his son he’d financed the best education, provided the finest tutors, and attempted to mold him into a man. Still, they’d always been distant, and he’d always thought the boy an idiot.
    Yet the past few minutes had caused a reassessment.
    For the first time he was proud.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    Malone settled back in the seat as the helicopter angled up into the afternoon sky. The visit with Professor Goulding had been both enlightening and troubling. The chopper’s passenger compartment was roomy and insulated from both the cool air and the churning rotors.
    The helicopter bucked upward, then headed east to London.
    A rap from the cockpit window caught his attention. The pilot was pointing to his headset and motioning to another set that hung on the wall. Mathews donned the earphones, motioning for Malone to do the same with a third pair.
    “There’s a scrambled communication coming in for Sir Thomas,” the pilot’s voice said in his ears.
    Mathews twisted the microphone close to his mouth. “Let’s hear it.”
    A few clicks and a voice said, “Guinevere is at the castle with Lancelot.”
    “Any luck with the Black Knight?”
    “We have no idea of his location but have the sword in sight.”
    “We’re on the way. Keep me posted on any changes.”
    Mathews removed the headset and signaled for the pilot to end the communication. The older man moved close to him.
    “I wanted you to hear that. Albert is about to be murdered.”
    The words grabbed his full attention.
    “We’ve been monitoring this situation for some time. Peter Lyon plans to act this evening.”
    “Then stop him.”
    “It’s not that simple. We know where he intends to act, and how, even the point of origin. But your appearance in this offers us a new opportunity—considering the locale and the players involved. I’ve been wondering how we would proceed. Now I know exactly what to do.”
    He didn’t like the sound of that. “You have thousands of security people at your disposal. And you need me?”
    “I haven’t told you everything. Once I do, I believe you’ll understand why only you can do this.”

    Yourstone enjoyed a walnut muffin and the rich Turkish coffee he imported by the case. The jam on the table was concocted from grapes grown on his country estate and was served at Victoria II’s table at Buckingham Palace, something he considered an omen, a signal that all things Yourstone were surely right for England.
    He was reading the afternoon newspapers, evaluating the coverage on what had happened with Lord Bryce in the House of Lords. A lengthy editorial in one urged the Commons to seriously consider changes to the monarchy.
The time has come
, the writer urged. At a minimum royals should be forced to live off their personal revenues.
No longer should the people fund their reckless extravagance. The future Richard IV is nothing short of a national embarrassment
, the writer lamented. And not solely for his sexual promiscuity, but also for what the editorialist called
a loose grip on the reality of the modern world and substandard sensitivities to history and tradition
.
    That part pleased him.
    Many British possessed an almost fanatical obsession with their lineage, and the monarchy was just one of several links with that 2,000-year-old past. Living in a land littered with castles, manors, estates, and battlements only reaffirmed a connection with ancient Brits, Celts, Saxons, and Normans. He’d learned long ago that the proper