The Borgia Ring (16 page)

London, March 1589

Ann Doherty’s was a typical Southwark house, tall and narrow and misshapen as a hunchback. The outside was clearly in a sorry state of repair. There were ragged gaps in the plaster above the front door and the shutters on the windows were in dire need of fresh paint. But inside Ann had done her best to make it as homely as possible.

We walked into the main room straight from the street and almost immediately I felt the chill fade from my bones. It was a small place with a low ceiling. The floor was unadorned by any form of covering, just honest stone. A great fireplace took up much of one wall, with a wooden mantel above it upon which stood a line of pewter plates. A good, strong fire burned in the grate, and a kettle was boiling away on a stand above the flames. To one side of the fireplace stood a solid wooden seat, high-backed, with carved arms in the shape of lion’s heads. Two other chairs stood closer to the flames. As we came in, a young servant girl bent to lift the kettle from the fire and started to pour its steaming contents into a basin beside the heath. She hurried away as we approached.

I helped Ann over to a seat beside the fire and took a closer look at her face. Her upper lip was turning black. I wetted a cloth and dabbed at the wound. She winced. The boy, Anthony, ran up and crouched beside her. ‘Mistress Ann,
what have they done?’ he jabbered. He went to put his fingers to the woman’s injured mouth. I grabbed his hand, more roughly than I’d intended. He twisted to face me, his eyes ablaze, and I let him go.

‘Fear not, Anthony,’ Ann said gently. ‘These men are friends.’

‘Friends? Friends?’ he cackled. ‘Is there such a thing in this cruel world, my lady?’

She smiled and stroked his hair. ‘Yes, there is.’

‘Those were the Queen’s Guards,’ I said. ‘Who is this boy?’ I studied him properly for the first time. He was tall and slender. Straight black hair flopped down into his eyes and he had disproportionately full lips. A faint caterpillar of hair, some way short of a full moustache, lay above the upper one. But there was still a childish softness to his features. His eyes were an unusual colour, hazel flecked with darker brown, and his eyelashes were long and dark. I guessed he was a youth of eighteen years or so, but he might have been younger.

Ann put an arm around his shoulders. ‘Anthony is like a brother to me. I have looked after him for almost a year – since his parents died. He is a sweet boy and utterly harmless, but he suffers from a sickness of the mind. He is a true believer, but because of his affliction, he has no fear or caution. He believes he should preach the True Faith to all who will listen. Most of the people around here ignore him. They know he is harmless. Either someone took offence today or the guards were simply passing by and heard something they did not like.’

‘I’m not happy about this,’ Sebastian declared, stepping towards us. ‘It’s madness. This is supposed to be a safe house. This boy is attracting attention.’

I looked at Ann’s shocked expression. ‘Sirs, I’m very sorry. It will not happen again. Anthony is a good soul. His heart is pure.’

‘The boy’s character is of little interest to me,’ Sebastian snapped. ‘I don’t think you realise the dangers we face.’

Ann stood up. She was almost as tall as my friend. ‘Sir, I have apologised. What more do you wish of me?’

Sebastian looked surprised by the girl’s outspokenness. Then I could see his surprise turn to anger. He took a step towards Ann Doherty and I felt sure he was going to strike her. But she was amazingly agile. Sebastian had barely moved when she caught him off balance, grabbed his brandished fist and pushed him back against the wall. She had her fingers at his throat. ‘Don’t ever tell me I am ignorant of the dangers we face, sir,’ she hissed. ‘We face death every day. Not for us the luxury of shelter in the chambers of the Vatican, Father Sebastian. Here, we must survive by our wits.’

She released him. His face was flushed with embarrassment and he ran his fingers over his neck where Ann’s strong fingers had left red marks.

I laughed to lighten the mood, which did not best please my friend. ‘Come, Sebastian,’ I said, and put an arm about his shoulders. ‘Let’s not begin this visit on the wrong foot.’ Then I turned to Ann. ‘Perhaps you have both over-reacted. Shall we not be friends?’

‘Yes, friends, friends!’ Anthony agreed gleefully, and began a little dance.

Sebastian’s face was still thunderous. He straightened his tunic and ran a finger under his ruff. ‘I would like to be shown my bedchamber … if that pleases, my lady,’ he said coldly. I gave him a reproving glance, but he looked straight through me.

‘I would be very happy to, Father,’ Ann replied. ‘I’m sure you are both exhausted after your long journey. But there is one piece of business that needs to be attended to first. If you’ll excuse me.’ She passed between Sebastian and me and
walked to the corner of the room where there stood a small oak desk. She opened a drawer, and to my surprise removed the entire thing from the desk. Then, after taking something from the back of the drawer, she pushed it back in. In her hand was a piece of paper, folded and sealed with an amorphous blob of wax. I broke the seal, opened the paper and read: ‘Our mutual friend Richard will call on you soon. He will point the way to the brothers in crime. You may trust Richard and the brothers, and heed their advice. They are all loyal. The brothers will be expecting you. Destroy this immediately after you have read it.’ Beneath this was the holy papal seal. Sebastian took the note from my fingers and read it quickly. I reread it then stepped over to the fire and tossed it into the flames, watching it catch fire and turn black and crisp.

‘We were told we would meet our superior, Father Richard,’ I said. ‘But who are the “brothers in crime”?’ I looked at Sebastian and then at Ann. Anthony was making shapes with his hands, casting shadow puppets on a wall at the far side of the room.

‘The brothers in crime? I don’t …’ Ann began, then smiled. ‘Of course! Edmund and Edward Perch. It could be none other.’

Sebastian and I looked at the woman, bemused.

‘They are local criminals. They lead a gang, the most powerful in the area, and deal in illicit goods, contraband. They are expert extortionists and each of them has murdered many men.’

‘And you know where to find them?’

‘Everyone knows where they are. Few wish to approach them. But the letter was quite clear on that point: Father Richard will show you the way. Now, come. Let me take you to your bedchamber. My maid will bring you some hot water with which to wash away the grime of your long journey.’

It felt as though I had only just fallen asleep when I was awoken by Ann calling my name. I opened my eyes and found her leaning over me, holding a rush light that produced a pale and feeble glow. She placed the light on a small table beside my bier and walked around to wake Sebastian. I could see him jump up from his bed, startled as Ann touched his shoulder.

I was instantly awake and sitting up. ‘What hour is it?’ I asked, seeing the black sky through the mean window set high in the opposite wall.

‘It is two hours past sunset, Father,’ Ann replied.

‘You should not have let us sleep so long,’ Sebastian responded. I could see his angry expression even in the faint light from the flame at my bedside.

‘You needed the rest,’ she retorted. ‘And you have plenty of time to prepare for Mass.’

‘You have arranged a gathering?’

‘Yes. Don’t worry … not here.’

‘Where?’

‘We have several regular meeting places in houses around this neighbourhood. We never meet in the same place consecutively. Tonight, the Mass will be held in Swan Lane. It is not far. Now, if you would like to ready yourselves, I will show you the way.’

‘Wait.’ I held her arm. ‘Are you sure it is safe?’

‘I do not know, Father. We live in dangerous times. It is not my decision to hold this Mass tonight, but your superior’s.’

‘Father Richard will be there?’

‘He will be taking the service.’

Ann had replaced the bowl of water and I splashed my face and ran a warm, wet cloth over the back of my neck. It was freezing in the room and I quickly pulled on my tunic and hose. In my bag, I found my coat and mittens. It was so cold
our frosty breath billowed in front of our faces. I peered out of the window as Sebastian dressed. He was huffing and puffing in the chill. It was surprisingly light outside; the dirty lemon orb of a full moon lit up the frost on rooftops. I could see a few faint lights, and in the distance a ribbon of water, the Thames, silver in the moon’s glow. A snowflake glided by, pirouetted and dissolved on the windowsill.

We were downstairs within a few minutes. Anthony was waiting, swathed in a tattered brown wool cloak, felt hat and gloves. He giggled inanely when he saw us. ‘We look like bears,’ he exclaimed, and gave a loud roar.

We saw no one as we left the house and turned straight into a dark, cobbled lane. Ann led the way, holding Anthony’s hand. It was snowing in earnest now, settling on the cobbles and on the frozen soil. The lane opened on to a square. A couple of stallholders were still trading in the gloom. There was a bonfire in one corner. A group of people sat around the dancing flames, passing a bottle of amber liquid between them. One of them, a toothless old hag, laughed so loudly the sound carried right across the square. In the centre danced a jester in typical garb: yellow-and-red-striped hose, a tunic with bells attached to the hem, and a huge, multicoloured hat. He was juggling firebrands, the flames cutting red arcs through the snowfall.

We ducked into another lane beset with shadows. This was barely wider than a man’s shoulders and we had to walk single file. Directly overhead, the first floor of a shabby house hung over the lane, ending up so close to the house opposite, a bird would have found it difficult to fly between the two.

After a few minutes of quick walking I began to lose all sense of where I was, just as I had earlier that morning. This place was a veritable warren, I decided. The people who made Southwark their home knew many shortcuts and singular passageways. They knew how to avoid the beggars
and the thieves, but to me it was an unnavigable maze. If I were to become separated from Ann, I would never find my way back to her house.

I was just beginning to despair and losing all feeling in my chilled fingers and toes when Ann and Anthony ducked into a doorway. As Sebastian and I came up behind them I heard Ann rap on the door, a subtle little dance of the knuckles, obviously a secret signal to those inside.

A young maid opened the door and led us into a room similar to the front parlour of Ann’s house. Leading the way to the back of the room, the maid pulled a metal ring hidden at one end of a shelf full of books. There was a faint click and she slid a panel aside. In the darkness beyond, I could just make out a narrow staircase that fell away downwards. The maid plucked a lit reed from an alcove inside the concealed passage and began the descent.

I was the last down and was amazed to find myself stepping into a large, rectangular basement. The walls were wood panelled, the floor left as dirt. Shallow alcoves ran the length of each of the two longer walls and in these candles burned. At the far end, I could see an altar. It was draped in a rich purple cloth and a large golden cross had been placed at the centre of the altar. Beside it I could see a gold chalice, and next to that a plate. At each end of the purple cloth, squat candles in simple gold holders offered up a creamy glow. I dropped to my knees and crossed myself, reciting the Lord’s Prayer before getting to my feet again.

A small group of people stood close to the altar. As I approached, they turned as one. At the back of the gathering stood a Catholic priest. Broad-shouldered and tall, he was wearing a bronze-coloured robe, beautifully embroidered in gold thread. On the front of the robe, a large cross of silver had been stitched into the fabric and in the centre of this was an image of Christ, eyes directed to the heavens, one finger
pointing to his heart. I recognised the priest immediately. It was Father Richard Garnet, the most senior Jesuit in England, a man who had done such wonderful work for Our Lord that in Rome his name was revered above all other Englishmen’s. He stepped forward, embracing Sebastian and then me.

‘It is good to see you again, my brother,’ he whispered in my ear. Then he led us to the group by the altar.

There were some twenty worshippers. Father Garnet introduced us to them. The last was a narrow-faced man with a luxuriant head of silver-white hair. He had almond-shaped brown eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard.