Jack Pendragon - 02 - Borgia Ring

by Michael White

  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.

  ‘Quick!’ I hissed to Anthony, and pulled him none too gently away from the scene and towards the looming walls of the Bear Garden.

  I tossed another couple of pennies into a wooden box at the door and we were in and merging with the crowds. A large elliptical arena occupied most of the space within the walls. A rickety-looking three-tiered stand had been built to circumvent the arena and this was packed with people yelling and screaming, the entire audience transfixed by what was happening. For a second, I became fascinated by the face of one particular spectator. His flabby cheeks were flushed, eyes wide, pupils huge. His lips were pulled back in a snarl, and a line of spittle had dribbled down from the corner of his gaping mouth and reached the bottom of his chin. Unheeded, the drool dangled there and formed a long, pale string that shook as he moved his head and shouted at the spectacle. His fists were clenched at his sides and he was punching the air with rapid, almost involuntary thrusts. I stopped staring at him and turned to see what was happening in the arena.

  A bull was on its knees, roaring with pain as a mastiff gnawed at its neck. The dog’s teeth, smeared with blood, flashed tarnished white, and a red spray flew up into its eyes. Two other dogs were gnashing at the bull. One sank its fangs into the animal’s rump and the other attacked its flank. I heard Anthony squeal beside me and bury his face in my shoulder. I turned and led us away from the terrible sight. No one took the slightest notice of us, their minds focused entirely on the grisly entertainment.

  As we reached the perimeter of the
stands, a roar went up from the crowd. We didn’t stop to find out what new obscenity had been committed but walked quickly along the circular passageway, low-walled and open to the falling snow. Rounding the bend, I almost collided with a huge man sitting on a stool to one side of a large door. He shot to his feet with surprising agility and blocked our way. He had a head not much smaller than the bull’s in the arena, but his large, watery eyes looked almost benign. At first glance, his gigantic face had a childlike quality, but the effect was marred by a scar at least six inches long, running in a jagged red line from his left temple across his cheek to his mouth.

  I looked back the way we had come and was about to retreat when Anthony took a step forward. ‘Benjamin,’ he said quietly.

  The man ceased staring at me, peered at Anthony and broke into a gap-toothed smile. He placed a massive hand on Anthony’s bony shoulder and made a low gurgling sound. It was then I noticed how slack his mouth was and realised this giant’s tongue had been removed.

  ‘He cannot speak,’ Anthony said quickly, darting his gaze from me to Benjamin and back again. ‘The devils cut out his tongue for criticising the new church.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Benjamin protects the brothers,’ Anthony replied. ‘He is my friend.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say before?’ I snapped. The brute, who was still smiling at Anthony, turned to glare at me then. He took his hand from the boy’s shoulder and I could see his fingers curl into a fist.

  ‘No,’ Anthony said gently, and pushed down on Benjamin’s hand. ‘Friend.’

  ‘Can you take us to the brothers?’ I asked, keeping a close eye on that massive fist.

  Benjamin eyed me suspiciously then made one of his low, guttural sounds deep down in his throat.

  ‘I need to speak with them. It is a matter of great urgency.’

  Benjamin fixed me with those huge childlike eyes of his for a few moments. Then he shrugged, turned and opened the door into a darkened room. He nudged me to go in first. I took one step inside and was immediately grabbed about the neck by a strong arm. I felt cold steel at my throat and tried to speak, but my assailant’s grip was like a vice. I brought my hands up, but the grip merely tightened. I was almost lifted off my feet and propelled across the room before being thrown to the floor. Anthony landed beside me and started to whimper.

  I pulled myself up and helped the boy to his feet, putting a finger to his lips to prevent an outburst. We were in a small room, its walls draped with brightly coloured silks. A large sconce hung from the ceiling, holding a dozen or more white candles. The stone floor was covered with a sumptuous, patterned rug.

  A few paces in front of us an enormously fat, bald man, dressed in purple silk, reposed on a velvet-covered couch. His ruff was lilac and he was wearing make-up like a stage performer, bright rouge on his cheeks and dark smudges beneath his small black eyes. He smiled and his whole face creased grotesquely. To either side of the man lay a pale-skinned, semi-naked young boy. But the most extraordinary thing about the fat man was the contraption he had in his mouth. It was a long slender tube with a bulb at one end. He was drawing on the narrow end and smoke was curling up from the bulbous bowl. The smell was like nothing I had ever experienced. It racked my throat, and I coughed involuntarily.

  ‘Well, what have we here?’ the man said, removing the contraption from his mouth. His voice was shrill and effeminate. He looked straight through us at the two men who had dragged Anthony and myself into the room so indecorously. Benjamin stepped between them. He made a strange sound from the bottom of his throat and the man on the couch studied us properly for the first time.

  ‘Friends, Benjamin?’ he said. ‘Really? Well, what a wonderful and rare thing.’ He waved one hand as he spoke, and I noticed he was wearing far too much jewellery: huge gold rings on each finger, and a thick, jewelled bracelet. ‘What’s your name?’ he addressed me.

  ‘I am John Allen,’ I told him.

  ‘And how may I be of assistance to you, Mr Allen?’

  I heard one of the men behind us laugh. Anthony clutched my arm.

  ‘I am looking for Edmund and Edward Perch. I was told they would be here this evening.’

  ‘Oh? And what would be your business with those two gentlemen?’

  I paused for a moment to take stock and held the fat man’s eye. ‘You are one of the brothers?’

  ‘You have not answered my question … friend.’

  ‘I am a trader visiting London on business. I arrived this morning with my friend, Sebastian Mountjoy. If you are one of the brothers, you will have heard of our visit.’

  ‘Perhaps I have,’ the man said, a faint sardonic smile playing across his lips. ‘Tell me, what is the nature of your business?’

  ‘We are calamine importers.’

  He nodded. ‘And the whereabouts of your associate? We were told there would be two of you.’

  I gave a heavy sigh and squared my shoulders. ‘My friend was killed this evening,’ I said quietly.

  ‘How very unfortunate. And what of your monkey?’ the man said softly, flicking his gaze towards Anthony. The two boys on the couch burst into giggles.

  ‘If you cannot help me, then I would like to leave,’ I replied.

  ‘Bring him closer,’ the fat man ordered, and I saw Anthony tugged to one side as the guards dragged me to within a few inches of the man on the couch. I could not stop myself from coughing. He rose to his feet and brought his face close to mine, blowing a plume of blueish smoke full into my face. My eyes stang and I felt my throat burning as I tried to cough away the smoke. Through the haze, I could see one of the pale-skinned boys guffawing. The fat man leaned closer and started sniffing me. Then, to my disgust, he flicked his tongue along the side of my neck, sat back down on the couch and smacked his lips.

  ‘Mmm, I love the taste of fear,’ he said, and clicked his fingers at the two guards. They let me go and I took a step back, wiping my neck with the back of one hand.

  ‘Tell me, Friend John, what is it you want of us?’

  ‘I was told you could help with our business venture.’

  ‘And how do I know you are not a spy from the Queen’s court, come to trap me and my brother?’

  ‘How would a spy know the things of which I have spoken?’

  ‘That would not be difficult. Walsingham’s servants are unrelenting in their work. You know that well enough.’

  ‘I might say the same to you, sir,’ I replied with all the conviction I could muster. ‘How do I know you are not a spy?’

  The man stared at me, his face expressionless. Then he eased himself up from his couch and walked slowly towards me again. He stopped, looked down and grabbed my left hand, bringing it up to the light.

  ‘So this is the ring,’ he said. ‘I was told it was a thing of beauty, but this … this is … Remove it.’

  I yanked my hand away and one of the guards stepped forward. The fat man glared at him and he retreated. I saw the flash of a heavily jewelled hand and felt the touch of metal at my Adam’s apple. Then a sharp pain. I gasped. Peering down, I could see an ornate dagger with a serrated edge. The tip had drawn blood that ran in a narrow stream down the blade.

  ‘Edmund.’ The voice was quiet, but sharper than the blade at my throat. The fat man turned his head lazily towards the door. I dared not move a muscle.

  ‘Put the knife away,’ the voice said.

  It did not move.

  ‘PUT IT AWAY.’

  I felt the blade lift away from my throat and Edmund Perch took a step backwards, his eyes filled with malice. I turned to see a man standing beside the door. With him was Ann Doherty.

  Anthony ran forward and threw his arms around her. ‘My lady!’ he squealed. ‘My lady.’ And kissed her on each cheek. Ann hugged the boy and smiled wanly at me over his shoulder.

  The man with her strode over to me. ‘I apologise,’ he said. ‘Edmund is a little … theatrical. Are you not, dear brother?’ Edward Perch gave his brother a contemp
tuous look.

  I must have been in mild shock because, for a few moments, I could not put my words or thoughts in order. Instead I stared at the new arrival, barely able to imagine that he and Edmund Perch were indeed brothers. Edward was tall and well built with a full head of black hair. He might once have been handsome, but the years had ravaged his face. One of his eyelids drooped low, covering much of his left eye. His nose had been shattered at least once and a white line of scar tissue ran from septum to upper lip.

  ‘Ann has told me all about your mission, Father,’ Edward Perch told me. ‘If you still seek my assistance, I’m here to offer it.’

  Stepney, Thursday 9 June, 3.30 p.m.

  ‘Sorry, guv, but that thing bloody stinks,’ Turner said, and opened the window on his side of the car as they swung off Mile End Road, heading south towards the river.

  Pendragon gave a contemptuous shake of the head and took another bite from his baguette. ‘Believe me, Sergeant, it’s wonderful,’ he said with his mouth full. He was starving and had been delighted to find a superb deli not a hundred metres from the station.

  ‘What’s in it? Smells like my dog’s breath.’

  Pendragon pulled a face and lowered the baguette to the paper wrapper on his lap. ‘Charming. It’s actually very fine Parma ham and Brie. I’ve found the ideal lunch spot.’

  ‘You’ll put on a stone in a month if you fall for that.’

  ‘Very possibly. Tell me, what did you find out about the slippers?’

  ‘Not much, I’m afraid. There are only two places in the country who use gold thread for their top-of-the-range dance shoe, and neither of them make men’s sizes. I then took a look at makers of men’s fancy slippers. Dress slippers, they call ’em. Versace sells them for over a thousand quid a pair, would you believe? Every place I tried imported them from Italy and France, but when I checked there I found they were actually manufactured in Thailand. Cheap labour. Makes you wonder what the mark-up must be, dunnit?’