The Hidden Rose Read online

  The Hidden Rose

  Book One

  The Order of the Rose

  By

  Abby Gordon

  Copyright 2018 by Abby Gordon

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author. Any resemblance of fictional characters to persons living or deceased is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 9781983052934

  Imprint: Independently published

  Cover art by Angela Anderson

  Author’s Note

  Every effort has been made for accuracy in depicting the life of the times – character behavior, morals, mode of transportation, locales, etc. Some license has been made regarding language and speech patterns for both English and French. As much as possible, historical persons such as Elizabeth Tudor and actual members of her court have been characterized as faithfully as possible. However, again, some license has been made for this work. Certain events through the course of this series are historical record. I have made use of them, inserting characters where actual names of those involved were not mentioned. Please note that the accuracy extends to male and female gender roles. For the most part, women had little power. Elizabeth Tudor was the exception, not the rule.

  Dedication

  To my sons –

  James, John, and Michael

  Words cannot describe the blessings you have been in my life.

  To Angela –

  Friend, patient editor and fricking amazing cover artist

  Yes, we are the diggity Bomb

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Prologue

  Buckingham Palace, January 1938

  “Tommie, what is this change on the calendar?” King George VI, on the throne just four weeks, frowned down at the paper. He was quite certain that he’d had a meeting with two ministers about the fleet.

  “Sir?” His secretary turned from the table across the room. “Which item?”

  “Harry, Baron of Corwen and Owain, Lord Berwyn. Both of Wales.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well…” The king struggled to speak and just looked at his secretary in frustration. His stammer hit him at the most inopportune times. “Topic?”

  “National security, sir.”

  “Prime Minister.” He glanced down but didn’t see any other names.

  “His presence was denied by the baron, sir.”

  “Damned strange.” How in blazes did one discuss national security without the Prime Minister present? Could he even do that? He frowned, knowing what his elder brother would have replied. David had wanted all the rights and privileges of being king but hadn’t understood any of the responsibilities or limitations. As if he didn’t realize what century we lived in.

  “The baron said it was only for the king and his heir. As the Princess Elizabeth is not yet eighteen, the baron suggested the Duke of Gloucester be in attendance.”

  “Stranger still,” the king muttered. “The queen is…”

  “Also denied.”

  He definitely hadn’t heard that correctly. The private secretary flinched at the steely gaze of the monarch.

  “Pardon?”

  “The baron apologized, but the meeting is restricted to him and his heir, and you and yours, or your next eldest brother.”

  “We’ll see about that,” retorted the King, tapping the sheet. “Corwen. Find out more on him and his family.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Four hours later, the door opened to the room the king normally met with the Prime Minister. The king felt a knot in his stomach as he glanced at the woman to his right. This meeting was going to start off on the wrong foot.

  “The Baron of Corwen and Lord Berwyn.”

  Two distinguished men in formal dress walked in, the baron a half step ahead of his son. They halted in unison and nodded to the monarch. The son inhaled slightly, but the baron’s expression didn’t change. He was in his early seventies and Berwyn in his mid-forties.

  “My apologies, your majesty, but I cannot discuss this with anyone but yourself and your heir’s Regent.”

  “The queen…” The king frowned as he saw his wife bristle slightly.

  The baron simply shook his head. “Again, my apologies, sir. I can only say that if you will let me speak, just the four of us, you will understand my reasons.”

  “Do you keep secrets of such import from your wife, baron?” the queen asked archly, with a winning smile. “Or you, Lord Berwyn?”

  The baron smiled slightly. “My wife was born into this secret, majesty, as was my daughter-in-law.”

  “A most unusual family,” she remarked, not rising from her chair.

  Neither Father nor son moved. Henry, Duke of Gloucester glanced at his older brother with a wry look. The little information the royals had been able to gather at such short notice told them only of the Corwen family’s absolute loyalty to the Crown going back to Elizabeth I, to whom the first Baron of Corwen had been a distant cousin. Diverse family members had been cited, honored, and awarded by nearly every king or queen since. Tommie had found a similar meeting had occurred between George V and the now Duke of Windsor. Memory jogged, the king recalled being introduced to Harry ap Llewellyn, Baron of Corwen, and his son, Owain, Lord of Berwyn, soon after the Great War, at one of the many military ceremonies. He wasn’t given particulars, but they’d been involved in something vital to the war effort.

  There was no record of an appointment the previous year when Edward VIII had ascended. That had piqued the king’s curiosity. King and his heir? Which meant he should have met Corwen and Berwyn last year. And didn’t. What had David been thinking? He dismissed that line of thought as it was now all too obvious what had been his obsession. His gaze went to his brother, who shrugged slightly, leaving it up to him. A glance at his wife had her eyes narrowing.

  “Darling,” he started.

  The queen shook her head. “Bertie, I don’t like this at all.”

  “Understood, darling.”

  With a glare at the baron, she stood, went to her husband, and kissed his cheek before sweeping out the door behind the desk without a good-bye to the visitors. The king looked at the royal duke, who bit back a smile.

  “You’re in for it,” Harry muttered.

  “Thanks for the support,” his brother retorted. “Please, gentlemen, be seated.” The king gestured to the chairs across from the desk.

  “Thank you, your majesty,” the baron replied, as graciously as if the queen’s obstinacy hadn’t occurred. When he and his son were seated, the baron across from the king, Corwen opened the case he had carried and withdrew a single sheet of aged parchment. “This is over three hundred years old, sir. Please be careful with it.”

  Nodding, the king took the paper, holding it so his brother, who leaned over, could read it as well. The text was difficult to follow, but they both recognized the flowery signature at the bottom—Elizabeth I on 25 February 1601.

  “Does the date have meaning?” The king tapped the parchment.

  “The day the second Earl of Essex was executed for treason,” the baron replied, pulling a second less yellowed parchment out of the case. “This is a translation, if you will, to modern English. Well, Victorian, at least.”

  “Thank you,” the duke murmured. “I felt like I was reading Chaucer again.”

  The baron smiled as he handed the king the paper.

  “You read it, Harry,” the king murmured.

  Nodding, Gloucester read it aloud.

  “Be it known to all those who follow me upon the throne of England and Wales and reign and rule over the lands and peoples herein and beyond, I place absolute and total faith in the descendants of our much beloved first Baron and Baroness of Corwen to protect the Crown, the monarch, and the Royal family with their every talent, to their last breath, to the last Rose. For they have risked everything, suffered much, and still stand before the throne willing to serve and defend us. For their sacrifice, service, and allegiance, I bestow upon them and their descendants, be they male or female, the title of Baron or Baroness of Corwen, Lord or Lady of Berwyn and all the lands and incomes bound herein.

  When the Root presents this to you, my fellow monarchs, I bid you heed his or her words. For their motivation is never power or gold, but to protect and serve us.

  Signed

  Elizabeth R

  This day of our Lord, twenty-fifth of February sixteen hundred-one.”

  In the silence that followed, he set the paper gently on the desk. “Last Rose?” murmured the duke. “And Root?”

  “We are members of a secret society,” the baron answered. “The Order of the Rose. It was founded during the Second Crusade by seven knights—one each from York, Gascony, Normandy, Frisia, Flanders, Catal
an, and Tuscany. They were concerned about the power and influence of the Knights Templar and an extreme branch called the Sons of Scion.”

  The king shook his head. “Spy novels,” he said dismissively.

  “Not at all, Majesty,” the baron replied. “Although during Elizabeth’s reign, the Order was instrumental in Sir Francis Walsingham’s spy network. They learned of the rebellion of the northern earls, discovered and exposed Roberto Ridolfi’s plot, saved Walsingham’s wife and daughter from the Saint Bartholomew massacre, found proof of Anthony Babington’s plot that brought about the execution of Mary, Queen of Scots. And lastly, they discovered Essex’s treason.”

  “Impressive,” Gloucester observed.

  “And this Root?” the king prompted.

  “The original seven knights and the leaders of their families became known as Roots. They were responsible for members in their regions. On occasion, they collaborated but mostly they avoided overlapping.”

  “Which religion did the Order support?” Gloucester asked.

  “Originally, they supported the Roman Catholic Church,” Corwen answered. “However, the papacy supported and sanctioned the attacks and slaughter of first the Tuscany Root and his family in 1533, soon after the birth of Elizabeth, and then the Catalan Root and his family in 1559, which came soon after Elizabeth was crowned, so that allegiance was understandably shaken and then broken.”

  “I’m amazed the York Root dared support Elizabeth so vigorously,” Gloucester commented.

  “The York Root died in 1548, having outlived his sons.”

  “So that line died out?” the king frowned, drawn into the story. A militant society, two of them?, had managed to stay hidden in England, throughout Europe, for centuries. It was like discovering everything he thought he knew of history had a secret story.

  “So, it was assumed by the members of the Order and the Sons of Scion,” the baron smiled. “The York Root feared the declining years of Henry VIII and the future of a monarchy with a king not of age. In utmost secrecy, he sent his daughter away.” The king’s mood brightened. “To the Catalan Root.”

  “Bugger it,” he muttered, slumping slightly. “The Spanish got her.”

  “My wife has compiled journals, letters, and everything she could find on the first Baron and Baroness of Corwen,” Berwyn began, pulling a pair of thick leather-bound journals from his case. “Do you both enjoy stories of history with heroes, villains, crowns in jeopardy, and true love winning out?”

  “All but the crowns in jeopardy bit,” the king retorted, taking one of the tomes. He’d had more than enough of that the past year.

  “Indeed, sir,” Berwyn agreed.

  “So, you, as the Root of York, now in Wales…” Gloucester started, glancing at Corwen who nodded. “You always meet with a new king and his heir to present them with this history lesson?”

  “This is the first time for something such as this,” the baron replied, nodding at the journals. “We always meet with a new monarch and the heir to show them Elizabeth’s letter and to swear our allegiance to the Crown.”

  “Not the prime minister?” the king questioned, remembering his conversation that morning.

  “The prime minister is the government. You, sir, as king, you are England and Wales,” the baron added with a smile.

  “And Scotland,” tsked his son, shaking his head. “Mother will have you sleeping at the top of Baron’s Path for a month in winter if you forget that.” With a smile, he glanced at the puzzled king and duke. “The Baron’s Path is named for the first baron and leads to the highest peak near Berwyn Manor. There’s usually four feet of snow in winter.”

  “Don’t tell her, then,” retorted his father.

  Berwyn gave his father a speculative glance. “I’ll have to think about that.”

  “Smart ass brat,” muttered the baron with an affectionate grin.

  The exchange drew a smile from the brothers.

  “Can you imagine any of us ever talking to Father like that?” Gloucester wondered.

  “Nothing close,” grunted the king. “So, to give us your allegiance?”

  “Indeed, sire,” the baron replied. “And to let you know that our Order is dedicated to protecting you, the queen, and the princesses.”

  “And yet you told the queen to leave,” the king reminded him, not looking forward to dealing with his wife.

  “Sire, the more people who know of a secret, the less it is a secret.”

  “You spoke to my father and brother,” he stated. “Soon after my grandfather’s death.”

  “We did, sir.”

  Eyes narrowed, the king rested his forearms on the desk and studied the man who met his gaze steadily. His stammer was commonly known if not openly discussed. Many assumed it demonstrated a lack of intelligence. Neither the baron or lord had that attitude toward him and he appreciated it. Something had happened after the death of his father. Why hadn’t David met with him? As David’s heir, I should have been at a meeting last year. Reviewing the past months, the king glanced at Berwyn who was about the same age.

  “You tried to arrange a meeting with my brother and myself last year, didn’t you?”

  The baron clenched his jaw and Berwyn glanced away. The king glanced to his left and saw the understanding in Harry’s eyes as he nodded.

  “So, how was David with you?” Gloucester cocked his head.

  “When I contacted him about arranging a meeting last February,” the baron answered in a tight, stiff tone, “he insisted that Mrs. Simpson be in attendance but not you, sir. I refused, hoping that if the meeting was delayed their relationship might end.”

  “Clearly not,” grunted the duke.

  “No,” agreed the baron. “And then last autumn, he reached out to me, demanding we protect Mrs. Simpson, stop the rumors about their relationship, or…”

  Berwyn growled softly, his body tense.

  “Or he would expose you to the public?” guessed the king.

  “Quite so, sir,” Corwen answered, his eyes still showing his frustration about the encounters.

  “He didn’t then, nor has he yet, said anything,” Gloucester pointed out.

  “Two can play at that game, sir,” Berwyn stated, scowling.

  That comment caught the sharp attention of both brothers. The king’s gaze took in the Welsh lord. David might be an arrogant fool but he was still a member of the royal family.

  “I would not wish my brother humiliated,” he stated carefully.

  “I understand, sir. However, I am not the only one with the information,” Berwyn told him. “As far as I have determined, there were seven of us with it.”

  “Were?” the duke caught the tense and raised an eyebrow.

  “Three are now dead.”

  The brothers shared a stunned glance at the implication that Berwyn, even while threatening their older brother, had killed to protect him.

  “He hasn’t told me what the secret is,” Corwen informed them. “I’m assuming it was sufficient to get the Duke of Windsor’s attention and comprehend that Owain was quite serious.”

  “Bloody hell,” muttered Gloucester. “Must be one helluva portfolio.”

  “It is, sir,” Berwyn assured him, his gaze going to the king. “I told him there were only two instances of my releasing it, sir.”

  “And those are?”

  “Him exposing the Order of the Rose and him being involved with anything that put England and the lives of you and the Princess Elizabeth at risk.”

  Corwen snorted. “If he did the latter, then it would be treason and the Order would kill him.”

  The brothers stiffened.

  “I cannot sanction such—” The king stated firmly.

  “Majesty,” Corwen leaned forward, absolute seriousness in his expression. “If he was involved in anything that risked the lives of the royal family loyal to England, then he will have removed himself from your protection. We put the two of you,” his finger jabbed first to the king and then the duke, “and your families first. We of the Order of the Rose will do anything we deem necessary to protect your lives, using all our talents and all our people. To our last breath. To the last Rose…” Corwen finished quietly, his voice fading as if in remembrance.