The Borgia Ring (20 page)

London, March 1589

There was barely room to move in the priest hole, and I was not best pleased by my proximity to Anthony who was not the most cleanly of creatures. We could hear voices, screams and shouts from the other side of the panel, and I tried not to think about what would be happening inside the chapel. I knew the powers of the Pursuivants, men employed by Walsingham to flush out seditionists and pollutants. They could arrest and restrain Catholics, but could only use their weapons in self-defence. Although it pained me to recall the fact, Sebastian had run at them. I could only hope that none of the others in the congregation met such a fate and that some might have escaped somehow.

Anthony was in a distraught state. ‘My Lady Ann,’ he whimpered pathetically. Then, turning to me, ‘Those devils,’ he hissed, spittle flying from his mouth.

‘Anthony, I understand your fears, but we must go.’

‘Go where? Hither and thither?’

‘Do you remember that Sebastian and I were meant to meet the Perch brothers? You know something of my task?’

‘Sebastian? I don’t like him. He is rude to my lady. But she bested him. Ha ha!’

I felt the pain of loss again as Anthony spoke of my dear friend. Vomit rose in my throat, and I suddenly realised how
stiflingly hot it was in the priest hole. ‘Do you know a way out of here?’ I asked, forcing Anthony to meet my eyes. For a moment, his own seemed unusually lucid.

‘I do,’ he said. ‘Yes. I do. Come.’

He squeezed past me and his body odour hit me anew, causing a fresh spasm of nausea. Anthony leaned into a narrow gap at the back of the priest hole and it gave way. Sliding through, he disappeared into darkness. I took a step forward and squeezed after him.

On the other side, I found myself in a damp, narrow tunnel. It stank of cold earth and mould. I felt the touch of a hand on my arm and jumped back, cracking my head on the roof.

‘This way,’ said Anthony’s voice.

The only light in the tunnel was a slender chink of hazy white, straight ahead. We walked towards it. Our boots crunched on whatever lay on the floor. I did not like to ponder this further and urged Anthony on. The light grew brighter and we soon found ourselves at the end of the tunnel, staring at a wall. It was wet and slimy, but there were small recesses in the stone, just large enough to accommodate clamped fingers, the toes of a boot. At the top I could see a hatch door pivoted upwards. Again, Anthony led the way, ascending the wall with the agility of an ape from distant lands. I took it a little slower and with considerably more trepidation. As I approached the last few toeholds, Anthony had reached our objective. He leaned back into the shaft and helped me out.

The hatch opened on to a small room. A single, tiny window set high on one wall was the source of the light we had seen in the tunnel. The room was empty save for an old wooden crate in one corner. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and there was green mould around the walls at waist-height. As I emerged into the room, I noticed a closed door to my right. I walked over to it, put my ear to a narrow crack where
the door met the frame and listened intently. I could hear nothing. I tried the door which opened outwards.

We were in a narrow lane. Snowflakes fell on my face and I felt the biting wind funnelled by the buildings to either side of the lane. Two paces ahead stood a brick wall. I looked to my left. The lane plunged into darkness. To my right, I could see a well-lit thoroughfare. A cart filled with people passed by. They were all merry, passing around a flagon of some sort. One of them, a cheap whore by the look of her, wearing a low-cut bodice, her hair loose and long, screamed with laughter and fell back against the rail of the cart, legs shamelessly akimbo.

I turned to Anthony. ‘Which way now? You can take me to the Perch brothers, as you said?’

‘I don’t like them,’ he said, refusing to meet my eye.

‘You need not speak to them, Anthony. Just take me to them.’

‘They will eat your head, Father.’

I gave him a gentle smile and placed one hand on his shoulder. ‘Do not fear for me, Anthony. I must find the brothers. My mission here is of the utmost importance. It is the Lord’s wish that I find the Perch brothers and seek their assistance. Do you understand?’

He nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I understand, Father John,’ he said. ‘Our mission.’ He straightened his back. ‘I will do the Lord’s bidding. Yes, I will. I will. The brothers will be at the theatre. Yes, that’s where they’ll be.’

‘The theatre?’

‘The Eagle. Yes, the Eagle Theatre. It’s all a game, you see. My Lady Ann told me. People pretend to be other people. They sing songs there and dress up. It is very merry.’ He looked at me, eyes ablaze with sudden excitement. Then, without another word, he headed for the main road at the end of the lane.

I stopped him. ‘Your robe.’

He looked down at his white vestment and pulled it over his head obediently.

We could not have been more than one hundred feet from the subterranean chapel and the horrors we had just witnessed there, but as Anthony led us into the milling crowds I felt safer than at any time since we had arrived in London. I pulled my scarf over my face to add a layer of disguise and kept my head down. We were in a large square. A market dominated one half of it, with stallholders selling a bewildering array of goods. There were fish counters and stalls piled high with apples and chestnuts. Beside these I saw a counter lined with rows of wooden toys: spinning tops and brightly painted soldiers. Another stallholder was hawking wooden beads, and a few feet from him a trader was loudly beseeching prospective customers to feel the quality of the silk he had laid out on a rickety table.

We moved past the stalls quickly, avoiding eye contact with anyone, and ducked down another alley. It was powdered with untouched snow that glinted in the moonlight. Sensing that this was a hostile place, I encouraged Anthony to break into a trot before anyone could leap out on us and slit our throats.

We were soon in another busy thoroughfare. This time, though, everyone seemed to be moving in one direction – towards the river. We merged with the throng. We took a sharp turn to our left and I could see the theatre directly ahead of us. It reared up out of the shabby dwelling houses surrounding it, with the silver Thames immediately behind.

I had seen the Eagle Theatre from the north bank of the river when I’d lived in this city five years before, but even though play houses such as this were immensely popular with Londoners of all types and classes, I had never been
tempted inside one myself. The Puritans, of course, hated any form of mummery; it was all part of their dour, restrictive outlook on life. And yet I, too, did not feel very comfortable with the new craze for the theatre. It seemed to me that there were more profitable paths to pursue in life. Instead of pretending to be someone other than himself, it might befit a man more to improve that which he was. But even for one so sceptical about the theatre, my first glimpse of the Eagle at such close quarters quickened my blood.

It was like a vast drum built from flint, rising six floors above the ground and towering over all the neighbouring buildings. I noticed a red flag waving above the turret behind the stage area. This, I knew, meant the play was a ‘history’, and then I saw, hanging over the main entrance to the theatre, a large cloth banner carrying a picture of a Persian warrior and the title:
Tamburlaine
.

The play had already begun. We could hear the sounds of the performance: music, voices, and then a cannon blasting into the night. Around the walls of the theatre stood more stalls. These were selling refreshments, but the busy time just before the start of the performance had passed. Many of the stallholders were resting now before the rush at the end of the play. Immediately behind the stalls, I could see a line of latrines, trenches dug into the hard soil. A single customer was pulling up his hose just as the attendant dumped soil over the mess then leaned on his shovel, wiping his nose with the cuff of his filthy tunic, and sighing.

Anthony and I ducked among the stragglers around the theatre and slipped through its doors with the late arrivals. I paid the penny entrance fee for each of us. We were supposed to head straight for the pit where our penny would allow us to watch the performance among the commoners, but we were not there to be entertained. I led the way along a curving corridor that ran the circumference of the building. A few
paces from the main doors, we came across a spiral staircase. Looking up, I could see it climbed to the top floor of the gallery, with openings leading off to every level before that.

I was not sure which way to go, but I knew we had to find someone we could trust who worked here or at least knew the men who ran the theatre. Reaching the second level, I led Anthony through an opening and along the back of the gallery. It was packed with wealthier citizens seated on cushioned chairs. They had brought provisions and were drinking wine, joking and talking merrily, hardly paying attention to the play. We could see the stage from here. It was lit up with half a dozen torches and backed with a sumptuous red and gold cloth. On the stage a small group of players was gathered, each dressed in fine fabrics. At their centre stood a Persian warlord with his curved sword drawn. He had an evil face with a pointed beard and blackened eyes. He looked like the Devil incarnate. I pulled Anthony away from the spectacle and we moved quickly down the narrow passageway behind the gallery.

A few moments later we were behind the stage itself. Through a slender gap in the backdrop, I could see the audience. Many in the pit were rapt, drawn in by the drama unfolding before them. I turned away and noticed a door to our right. I nudged it open and took a step into a small, windowless room. A man was sitting at a table, his back to us. I caught a glimpse of coins and a pile of wooden boxes of the type used to collect the admission charge. The man spun round and reached for his dagger. I raised my hands and Anthony ducked under my arm.

The man glared at us. ‘What do you want?’ He stood up, his hand remaining close to his weapon.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ I said. ‘I … we are looking for Edmund and Edward Perch. I was told they would be here tonight.’

The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘I have no knowledge of these men.’

I knew he was lying but I was on shaky ground. The last thing I wanted was for this fellow to sound the alarm.

I bowed. ‘Then I’m sorry to have troubled you,’ I said, taking Anthony by the shoulders and turning him towards the door.

‘Why do you seek the Perch brothers?’ the man asked.

I was almost out of the door but glanced back and studied the man for the first time. He was tall and thin, almost bald on top but with long, dark hair hanging to either side of his bony face. ‘It is a private business matter,’ I said after a moment.

‘Lucky you,’ the man retorted, and fixed me suspiciously with his eyes. Then his expression softened. ‘The brothers have done their business here for the night. They left but a short time ago … with their takings.’ He was about to say something else when another man appeared at the door. He looked me up and down. I caught a glimpse of Anthony who had retreated a few paces along the passageway.

‘Ah, Will,’ the man in the box office said. ‘These … gentlemen are looking for the brothers.’

The new arrival stared at me, one eyebrow raised. He was in his early-twenties and had the demeanour of an actor or entertainer of some sort. He was wearing the costume of a sailor. His face was painted and he was holding a sheaf of papers. He threw himself down into a chair beside the table and grabbed a jug of wine that had been standing close to the takings boxes. He swigged some, wiped his mouth and belched. ‘They’ll be at the Bear Garden,’ he said. I was surprised by his voice. It was rich and resonant with a rustic accent. I guessed he had not been in the capital long, but had come from a town to the north of London. ‘You a friend of theirs?’

‘I wish to discuss a business arrangement with them.’

‘Good luck,’ he replied, echoing his friend. The two men exchanged a grim smile.

‘You said they would be at the Bear Garden. I’m a visitor here. Where is that?’

‘If I spat from the roof, I could reach it,’ the young man replied, and nodded towards the stage. ‘Just follow the stink. Best be quick, though,’ he added. ‘Our beloved audience flocks over there as soon as our performance is over … sometimes before, God curse them.’

Anthony and I reached the ground floor without meeting another soul, slipped through the main entrance and out into the night. The snow was coming down fast now, great flakes the size of thumbnails. I looked up and let them land on my face. They felt like tiny feathers that dissolved as they reached the warmth of my skin.

The young actor had been right about the smell. As we passed by the far side of the theatre we found ourselves downwind from the Bear Garden. The acrid animal stench hit us.

‘I hate this place,’ Anthony said, slowing his pace. ‘They hurt animals. I don’t want to go in.’

‘Anthony, I have to find the brothers. Besides, I cannot leave you to fend for yourself. The Pursuivants may still be searching for us.’

‘But they hurt animals.’

‘I know. Needs must …’

There was a commotion behind us. A woman screamed and I turned in time to see two men wrestling with a third wearing a shapeless brown tunic and black hose. He was struggling to break free but his two assailants were pulling him to the ground. In the struggle an elderly woman had been toppled into the snow. I recognised the man in brown from the chapel.