The Cromwell Deception Read online

  The Cromwell

  Deception

  John Paul Davis

  The Cromwell Deception

  First publication

  © John Paul Davis 2014

  The right of John Paul Davis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The following tale is a work of fiction. All names, people, locations and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or else used fictitiously. Any similarity to people, living or deceased, events, organisations or locales not otherwise acknowledged is coincidence.

  This book or eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be resold, lent, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Praise for The Templar Agenda

  Can’t wait for the new one…

  Richard Doetsch, international bestselling author of The Thieves of Heaven

  John Paul Davis clearly owns the genre of historical thrillers.

  Steven Sora, author of The Lost Colony of the Templars

  A well-researched, original and fascinating work – a real page-turner

  Graham Phillips, international bestselling non-fiction author

  Books by John Paul Davis

  Fiction

  The Templar Agenda

  The Larmenius Inheritance

  The Plantagenet Vendetta

  The Cortés Enigma

  Non-Fiction

  Robin Hood: The Unknown Templar (Peter Owen Publishers)

  Pity For The Guy – a Biography of Guy Fawkes (Peter Owen Publishers)

  The Gothic King – a Biography of Henry III (Peter Owen Publishers)

  For more information please visit www.theunknowntemplar.com

  We Declared Our Intentions To Preserve Monarchy, And They Still Are So, Unless Necessity Enforce An Alteration

  Oliver Cromwell, January 1648

  Prologue

  The diadem of St Edward had not been seen for over three hundred years. It had been missing for so long that few people alive knew for sure what it looked like.

  It was first recorded during the Saxon era, in a chronicle from 981AD. Sixty years later it was pictured in an illustration, being placed on the head of King Edward the Confessor. The chronicler confirmed that this was its first appearance at a coronation, thereafter dubbing it ‘King Edward’s Crown’. Throughout the Middle Ages it was seen frequently, usually on similar occasions. Later historians agreed only on one thing: whatever its exact purpose and appearance, it had been an integral piece of the medieval Crown jewels, but separate from the crown captured in 16th-century portraits atop the heads of Henry VIII and Elizabeth I.

  It was the only piece of personal property owned by the kings and queens of England from the Saxons to the Stuarts.

  The last time it was officially seen was in London, within days of the fall of the monarchy. With Charles I executed, the diadem, along with the remainder of the Crown jewels, passed to a new owner.

  Not a king. But a Lord Protector.

  Exactly what became of the jewels had become the subject of conjecture. Officially, they had been sold and melted down for coins, probably in 1650. Parliamentary receipts had confirmed the sale, the majority of which remained stored in the National Archives. The stance of the British Government had remained unchanged since 1650. The jewels had been sold and melted down.

  Many doubted it was the full truth.

  Rumour that the jewels had survived had abounded since the day they disappeared. The party line among the Royalists was that the majority had been looted earlier, taken by rampant Roundheads during the height of the Civil War.

  Or salvaged by brave Cavaliers.

  A hundred years later, there were claims the jewels were still in use: stored in a secret vault under the watchful eye of the Royal Family, either in St James’s Palace, Windsor Castle or beneath the Tower of London.

  Over the next two centuries, the tales evolved further. Some claimed the jewels became dispersed, the most valuable stolen by looting soldiers or foreigners. Conspiracy theorists wrote of the new king being held to ransom, his failure to meet the demands met with antagonism and, later, silence. The same threats awaited his descendants, even in the modern day. The jewels, meanwhile, remained in a secure location, their whereabouts never made known. Only two of the original jewels had ever been found.

  None of the claims could be substantiated.

  The majority of the interest surrounded the fate of the Tudor state crown, made famous by the great 16th- and 17th-century artists. Others focused on the diadem, the jewel that dated back farthest.

  But exactly what it was remained a mystery. The illustrations in the chronicles suggested it was made of gold and encrusted with jewels on all sides. The use of colour suggested a prominence of sapphires, with rubies, pearls, and other rare diamonds. In every illustration the diadem was seen to glow, the light of its various gems creating an angelic halo above the king’s head.

  Whether real or symbolic, it was impossible to know.

  Only, if it was real, the diadem would have been almost priceless.

  The manuscript that appeared to shed light on the jewels’ whereabouts appeared at auction in London a month ago. According to its lot description, it was written in 1687 by an English lord named John Claypole, the head of a well-known family from Cambridgeshire who had famously married Oliver Cromwell’s favourite daughter. The seller had sought the approval of two experts, both of whom vouched for its authenticity. The manuscript had been missing, presumed lost, since the 1700s.

  It was listed for sale at £20,000.

  It sold for £65,000 to an anonymous bidder.

  The tale of John Claypole and what became of the missing jewels differed substantially to any other in circulation. Like most, it began at the end of the Civil War, with the diadem sitting in a position of prominence inside the Tower of London alongside the remainder of the famous jewels. When the Royalists lost the war, the king was arrested, incarcerated, tried, sentenced…executed.

  The fall of the king meant the end of the monarchy.

  The jewels that had been kept in a specially built enclosure close to the White Tower disappeared from the public eye, assumed destroyed. The receipts of their sale were accepted as legitimate. Nobody questioned them.

  Only one man knew the truth.

  Within his lonely study, a solitary candle casting deep, almost sinister, shadows across the pine surroundings, the Lord Protector had made his final act of property. Everything had been planned, the stage set. The words he had written had been a shock to all. Including the next recipient.

  The man who had governed England as king in everything but name had carried out the unthinkable.

  Angers, France, Modern Day

  The Duke had been on the phone for over an hour. He was used to getting his own way, but this conversation had not gone to plan.

  The idea had been mooted a week ago. It came to him the first time he read the story. The manuscript was beautiful, both in appearance and content. The handwritten text, slightly smudged from past exposure to damp, was still legible on every page, while the small paper pages, previously hardened to near brittleness, had softened after a week of appropriate care. Word by word, the author told his story, its relevance intrinsic both to the history of the time and the man. There was magic in the words: history and legend together as one.

  Never had English read so perfectly.

  As the conversation ended, the Duke pre
ssed the chubbiest of his fingers against the disconnect button while keeping the receiver placed hard to his ear. It was getting late, but not too late. If the young man was true to form, he would still be up. The man was a night owl, a family trait.

  If necessary, he would apologise for waking the man’s family.

  The phone rang, four bleeps before it connected on the fifth.

  “Allo?”

  “François?”

  “Uncle.”

  Good, the boy was awake. “Forgive the lateness of the hour. I have news from the gallery in London. It seems our request has been denied.”

  The Duke detected a pause at the other end, silence broken by breathing.

  “Did they offer a reason?”

  English, stuck-up pigs. The Duke smiled. “It seems the director of the gallery had concerns regarding the standard of our security measures. The lady was unwilling to compromise the safety of such an important collection. Bad experiences, she says.”

  The Duke’s smile widened as the words of his recent conversation with the woman from London replayed over in his mind. In truth, he didn’t blame her. Bad experiences seemed an understatement. Whilst the gallery in question had never been directly robbed, he knew many of its neighbours had lost significant works in the recent past, usually while on loan to the continent.

  “François, it is time to implement plan B.”

  “I understand, Uncle. I was wondering, however…”

  “Yes, François.”

  “The thought makes me uneasy. The manuscript is old and has passed through many hands. Even if the trail existed once, who is to say it has not already been found. The painting, even if the book is true, would be useless.”

  “Ah.” The Duke removed a cigar from the antique cigar box on the desk, struck a match to light it, and exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “I have been thinking of nothing else. Many know of the portrait’s history. Its secret, however, perhaps only us. The portrait has had only two owners in its entire history. The gallery dates its arrival to 1998. If what we seek has already been found, its discovery is likely to have been recent.”

  “That still doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Patience, François. If the treasures of our ancestors have been found, their existence will be known amongst the living. For this reason, three pieces of art must be taken that night.”

  The Duke spoke without interruption for over ten minutes, a plan so well thought out he knew his ancestors would have been proud.

  “First, you must travel to England and gain the trust of the gallery’s curator. In England, art is like royalty – accessible only to those who appreciate its true form. You must leave tomorrow. When time enough is past, the operation must be put into effect without further delay.

  “And may all the luck in the world be with you.”

  1

  London, Saturday, 1:50am

  It has been said that every man has an exact double. The young man had never believed it till he saw the paintings for the first time. The brown shoulder-length hair, slightly curlier in the image on the left, was identical in style and volume in both, and carried the same hint of chestnut that was possibly a trick of the light.

  Both men had dark penetrating eyes with a gaze locked just right of centre, yet somehow displaying that famed ability to, seemingly, follow an onlooker around a room.

  Both stood with their right arm closer to the artist and carried a long wooden staff in their right hand. The size and appearance of their hands was also identical.

  At a quick glance, the facial and bodily differences of the two men appeared more noticeable than the similarities, but on more detailed examination it became clear that the underlying characteristics were undeniably the same. Their faces were defined by long pointed noses, round furrowed brows, and finely trimmed facial hair that exaggerated their otherwise serious and thoughtful expressions. Both stood before a bold, but murky, blue and orange background, probably an early autumn skyline.

  They had been celebrities during an age of bloodshed and reform for similar, yet ultimately different reasons. The history books confirmed they had existed, but only one was widely remembered.

  The young man no longer had any doubts. The similarities in the face, the hairline, the build, and background all suggested only one possible conclusion.

  One of these men was an impostor.

  The gallery closed at 9pm. Most weeknights it shut at 6:30pm, but it always stayed open longer on Fridays. The extra time had made the intrusion both easier and more difficult. The number of visitors always picked up as the weekend drew near, but as closing time approached, the famous rooms had more of a deserted feel. The last of the staff would usually head off within an hour of closing, leaving the night watchmen alone till morning.

  Almost alone.

  They entered the gallery ten minutes before it closed, when the flow of visitors had reduced to a handful. François had seen the gallery only once before, whereas his accomplice had wandered the corridors almost every day for the past fifteen years.

  Five as the curator of 17th-century art.

  By 9pm they were inside the curator’s heavily personalised third floor office, their presence, as best they could tell, unnoticed to the wider world. The majority of the staff had left for the weekend. Not a sound could be heard from any of the neighbouring offices, while the usual glimmer of light escaping through the cracks around the doors had all long been extinguished. A lull had taken over the building, as was usual during the period between dusk and dawn.

  The time when the alarm system would be activated to its highest setting.

  They waited till 1:45am before leaving the office. The curator knew the layout of the building by heart, but it certainly felt different at night. Walking the hard wooden floors in the day, his journey observed by famous faces of the past, had always felt like being part of greatness.

  Tonight there was no such joy. Darkness cloaked him on every side, veiling the walls that were adorned with the paintings he knew so well. Even with the skylight, there was little light entering from above. In the torchlight, portraits came into view without warning, coming and going like ghosts. It was like viewing the world with tunnel vision, narrow and fleeting. He knew from experience that every room had a bench at its centre, usually situated between two lead busts placed at the midpoint on either side.

  As the light shone on the centre of the room, he saw it, less than five metres away.

  The first target would be located on the left.

  The portraits were hung side by side, the final two on the left wall. François had seen them before, but unlike the curator, he was no expert. The fact that they were of equal size made the connection seem all the more noticeable, but he knew there were other factors at play. Descriptions of both portraits had been placed beside the frames, biographies of the men and the artists. The one on the right was by an artist named Robert Walker, oil on canvas, circa 1649. The other was an unknown artist, oil on canvas, circa 1640.

  He knew one of them was wrong.

  François heard a noise of fidgeting and shallow breathing a few metres away.

  “Shhh.” He grabbed the curator by the throat and shone the torch at his face. In the light, the curator’s skin appeared peculiarly pale, his jaw clenched tightly. The man was a bag of nerves, worse now than when they had made their entry. François observed him from head to toe. The dark jacket, hat, trainers and gloves all looked out of place.

  But necessary.

  “Three minutes. No mistakes.”

  Taking his eyes off the curator, François moved toward the left of the two portraits. Operating in darkness was difficult, but tonight he knew there was no other option. After taking a moment to study the portraits under torchlight, he removed a second torch from his right pocket and pointed it at the painting on the left. A small circle of light emitted from the bulb, a unique blend of purple, white and blue as opposed to the usual yellowy white. Against the dark backdrop the colours
seemed to float, as if he was witnessing a miniature version of an aurora borealis. Within the circle of light he could see patterns on the painting, things the majority of visitors would never see.

  The light revealed what daylight never could.

  Finished, he looked to his left and pointed the torch at the curator’s eyes.

  “Well, Monsieur. It appears we were correct.”

  Angers, France, 3am

  The Duke awoke suddenly. A small desk lamp was shining in the corner of the room, illuminating a grand interior with antique furniture and cream walls on which were displayed a varied assortment of priceless works of art.

  He was sitting in his favourite armchair, leaning against the right armrest. He recognised the setting immediately, but for the life of him he couldn’t understand why he was there at this hour as opposed to being tucked up safe and sound within the comfort of his antique four-poster bed.

  His heart was palpitating wildly in his chest, accompanied by a feeling of disorientation. As the seconds passed, he felt control returning. This was no heart attack. Something had stirred him. As his senses returned, he heard something echoing throughout the room.

  The telephone on the main desk was ringing.

  Then he remembered. The reason he was still up.