Chapter 17
London, England
Sharyn shivered with trepidation as she passed the wooden expanse of the Traitor’s Gate. She tightened her grip on the crossbody bag, all too aware of the weight and responsibility she carried.
This place can’t be right . . .
On the train ride from Exeter, a set of coordinates had been texted to their burner phone, marking the location of the safehouse in London.
They had all expressed various levels of incredulity upon realizing where those coordinates led.
The location lay within the grounds of one of the most fortified and historic locations in the city.
Sharyn gaped at the spread of ramparts and fortresses that made up the infamous Tower of London.
According to a plaque near the entrance, the main castle—the White Tower—had been built by William the Conqueror in the eleventh century as a key defense to the city, commanding a hill overlooking the Thames.
Circling the central keep, massive curtain walls bristled with towers and barracks, all enclosing more than a dozen acres of parks and gardens.
It had now become a tourist attraction, where one could visit the vaults that held the Crown Jewels or be entertained by colorfully dressed Yeoman Warders—known as Beefeaters—who shared stories of the Tower.
Sharyn had no interest in such tales. She had her own pressing question that she wanted answered.
Why were we sent here of all places?
Sharyn turned her back on the Traitor’s Gate, where prisoners were hauled in chains to be interred in cold cells within the ground’s many towers.
She kept her shoulders bowed, her head down, expecting to be nabbed for trespassing—though, their group had bought entry tickets and traveled with the crowded press of tourists.
Duncan must have been worried about the same. “If the police catch us here,” he commented, “we’ll be joining a long list of the Tower’s famous prisoners: Anne Boleyn, Lady Jane Grey, Guy Fawkes.”
“If it comes to that,” Tag said, “I’ll accept incarceration.
” Still using his umbrella for a cane, he hobbled along the cobbled path, which passed under an archway, guarded over by the spikes of a black-iron portcullis.
Ahead, a groin-vaulted tunnel burrowed through the base of a hulking fortification.
He waved his free hand overhead at it. “Let’s hope we don’t suffer the same fate as those interred in the Bloody Tower above us. ”
Sharyn looked to him for elaboration, but Naomi explained.
“Two boys—Edward V and his younger brother Richard—were imprisoned at the order of their uncle Richard III. Most believe he had them murdered inside the tower to clear his path to the throne.”
“Or it could’ve been Henry VII, as the boys blocked his kingship, too,” Duncan added. “Either way, the tower is said to be haunted by their ghosts.”
“Enough with the spook stories,” Archie groused.
He clearly had enough of this nervous banter and hurried them out of the tunnel.
He also cradled his arm. His wounded shoulder must be paining him worse than he let on.
“This place closes in less than an hour. We need to get ourselves tucked away before that.”
They exited into the ground’s main courtyard.
The afternoon had turned gloomy with low skies.
Misty scraps of fog drifted like ghosts all around.
A road led the way forward, flanked by two walls: one newer and firmly bricked, the other a crumbling ruin of an inner castle wall.
A large black raven perched atop there, eyeing them with clear disdain.
Sharyn had read about the winged guardians, the ever-present residents of the Tower of London. Legend held that if the ravens ever abandoned these grounds, the British kingdom would fall.
She met the creature’s dark gaze and prayed such protections extended to her group.
“We need to get to the park above us.” Tag pointed ahead, where the road ended at steps that led up to another level of the grounds.
Their group headed toward it, flowing with the tourists.
Despite making it this far, they all remained anxious, pale-faced, and worried.
They had spoken little on the four-hour train ride, only enough to share the strange coordinates that led them here.
As a precaution, they had split up before boarding the train in Exeter, even taking seats separate from one another.
They also switched lines at Bristol Parkway, to hopefully confound any hunters.
Still, upon arriving in London, they had all rushed through the massive expanse of Paddington Station.
With trains arriving every fifteen minutes from the direction of Exeter, any search for them would have proved challenging.
Or so they hoped. Still, at the station, they had all departed by different exits, only reuniting outside at a coffeehouse several blocks away.
And now we’ve been directed to the Tower for some reason.
Sharyn’s heart continued to pound, and her mouth remained stubbornly dry, but she felt oddly comforted by these thick walls that had stood for centuries. As much as this choice of location confused her, surely their pursuers would be equally baffled and never think to look in this direction.
“Wait.” Duncan stopped them on the road. “There’s a shortcut this way.”
He lifted the tourist map and pointed it toward the newer brick wall. An archway cut through it. Past it, a set of steps led upward.
“Tower Green should be directly above us,” he assured them. “Only a stone’s throw from the King’s House.”
Our destination . . .
It had been formerly called the Queen’s House, but that changed with the coronation of King Charles III.
Still, no matter the name, why were we sent here?
They crossed and headed up the stairs single file. As Sharyn followed, the raven led out a raucous caw. She ducked at the sudden outburst. The bird burst from the wall, circled once overhead, and vanished behind her. She followed its track, paranoid that its cry had been some sort of warning.
Still, there was no turning back now.
At the top of the stairs, Sharyn gathered with the others along the edge of a park.
A stone walkway circled a wide expanse of lawn, which was shaded by massive trees whose leaves had crisped to a bright orange-yellow.
Plenty of tourists wandered the lawn’s edges, but Sharyn still felt exposed in the open.
“Where do we go?” she asked.
Duncan pointed across the green to an L-shaped set of rowhouses that framed the far corner of the park. The red-brick homes had second stories timbered in the Tudor style, all with steeply gabled roofs.
“The King’s House stands over there. Built in the sixteenth century by Henry VIII for his second wife, Anne Boleyn, who was held there before being beheaded on the Tower Green.”
Sharyn stared across the peaceful landscape, which now took on an ominous cast. From the number of doorways, there had to be eight or nine houses. Towers flanked both ends, and a third fortification rose in the middle, behind the corner of the L.
She frowned at the spread of homes. “Which of those is the King’s House?”
Duncan pointed to the one shadowed by the centermost tower. “That’s the one with the black door.”
Archie scowled. “You mean the one under guard.”
Sharyn had noted the same. To the left of the door, a soldier of the King’s Guard stood posted before a sentry box. He was dressed in a ceremonial red coat and tall bearskin hat. He also shouldered an assault rifle, tipped by a bayonet.
Archie frowned, clearly dismayed. “Do we just go up and knock?”
Tag shrugged. “We’ve been invited, haven’t we?”
They circled the green, side-stepping through clusters of tourists gathered around traditionally garbed Beefeaters, who extoled their patrons with stories of beheaded queens and imprisoned traitors.
As Sharyn and the others approached the King’s House, a roped stanchion blocked their way. A posted sign stated No Entry. The armed guard noted their group as they came to a stop. He firmed his grip on his weapon but remained silent.
“What now?” Naomi asked.
Anxious to get out of sight, Sharyn lifted an arm and called over. “We were told to come here! Could you check with whomever is inside?”
The guard shifted from his post, strode to the door, and rapped a fist on it, while never taking his eyes off them.
Duncan leaned toward Sharyn. “The King’s House serves as the residence of the Constable of the Tower, an honorary title, given for recognition of distinguished military service.”
“Do you know who holds the position now?” Tag asked.
Duncan shook his head. “Changes every five years.”
The black door to the house swung open. A young woman, who looked to be in her late twenties, bowed her head out and listened as the guard whispered to her. She then eyed Sharyn’s group, sizing them up.
Sharyn studied her in turn. The woman wore a thick gray turtleneck and jeans. Her red hair had been braided into an efficient tail.
Clearly not the constable.
The woman finally nodded and opened the door wider, but her eyes remained squinted with suspicion. The guard crossed to them, lifted the rope, and motioned them through.
Sharyn ducked past, wary of the weapon balanced in the soldier’s other hand. The modernity of the black assault rifle contrasted harshly with the bright ceremonial clothing.
With each step toward the doorway, Sharyn felt a rising tension.
The woman shifted to the side and lifted an arm to welcome them. “My father is upstairs.”
Anxious to get inside, Sharyn crossed the threshold first. The others crowded behind her into a foyer, where a marble bust of some historical figure stared at them, looking little impressed.
Beyond the entryway, a larger hall opened, painted red and covered in framed art and formal photos.
The space looked ready to receive dignitaries to the Tower.
Which is definitely not us.
The constable’s daughter closed the door behind them, sealing them inside.
Sharyn turned to her. “Thank you for—”
A harsh cry, full of venom, cut her off.
“Traitors . . . Traitors all!”