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 theQueen’sHouse, 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?”
