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showed him the two newest papers. Both were Internet printouts.
    “According to your father, the two books I’ve just shown you could well be the only two in existence that offer anything remotely interesting on the Sons of York. Interestingly, both books were published posthumously and were incomplete at the time their authors died. Even more bizarre, the authors died in peculiar circumstances. Furthermore, both were historians living in the north of England.”
    Thomas accepted the printouts and read them quickly. Both were Dictionary of National Biography overviews of the authors’ lives.
    Both had apparently been murdered.
    “According to Bridges, the possibility of a connection between the two politicians and my father cannot be ruled out. If our friar friend is telling the truth, we must also consider the possibility that there is a connection between these as well.”
    Thomas was practically speechless. “These go back centuries.”
    “As I say, Thomas, all we have is speculation,” the King said. “But I must confess this is not totally new. I remember a number of years ago I brought up the subject with my uncle Albert. Apparently my grandfather believed in their historicity…according to Uncle Albert, they were none too pleased with his controversial marriage.”
    The young man was captivated. “You b-believe they exist? And have done throughout h-history?”
    The King’s expression was grave. “All I know to be true, Tom, is that two politicians have been murdered, and the only evidence we have is from the ravings of a Dominican friar who, according to Bridges, is madder than the Mad Mahdi.”
    It was clear that the King’s joke was not intended to be humorous. “You believe him to be genuine?”
    “Ever since my father died, I’ve had people telling me one thing, and others telling me something else. Two months ago, in all honesty, I would most probably have ignored the lot of them. Yet that was before I became king.”
    The young man bit his lip. “I suppose s-satisfactory diplomacy leads one to sometimes forego the opinion of one’s own gut.”
    The King laughed to himself. “Yes, it certainly feels that way.”
    The prince looked again at the printouts, then at the King. “Wh-what exactly did my father say?”
    “Frankly, he seemed equally disturbed by the matter. Disturbed, or at least, perplexed. Without question, something relating to the Sons of York is factual. What are less clear are the identities of the people behind them.”
    The King looked at his nephew, this time more seriously. “In truth, I was hoping these tests might have put the matter to bed.”
    The young man understood the significance. “You believe that the p-politicians were killed by a man who b-believes himself to be a m-member?”
    “Our friend is currently being held in our most secure location. If he is as mad as they say he is, then surely you won’t learn much from him.
    “But even if our friend does decide to keep mum, it is here,” the King said, pointing to the pile of papers and books on his desk, “where the trail seems to be at its warmest.
    “What I must ask of you, is to find out just how warm it is.”
     
    Thomas left the study and headed through the grounds of the palace.
    “Thomas!”
    He heard someone shout his name as he headed for the car. An elderly man was waiting for him by the gate, his entry denied by the palace guards.
    Thomas swore under his breath. “For crying out loud.”
    “Unhand me,” the old man said to the well-presented guard currently depriving him of entry. “I am the Earl of Somerset.”
    Thomas took a deep breath and gestured toward the guard. “It’s okay. He’s allowed in the grounds.”
    The old man pushed aside the guard and headed along the pathway toward the prince. He wore a monocle over his right eye, partially obscuring the larger of his deep blue eyes, which was scarred beneath the lid. His white hair had almost completely thinned on top, the rest