Jack Pendragon - 02 - Borgia Ring Page 23

  He handed me a small bag and some clothes: a black tunic, black hose, a dark cap. ‘Put these on,’ he said. ‘It will help you remain concealed. In the bag is a change of clothing and a dagger. It is the only weapon we can risk you carrying en route to the palace, but it should be enough. You have prepared the ring?’

  I nodded and handed him the vial Sebastian had brought from Paris. ‘I shall need but one dose,’ I said.

  ‘Then it only remains for me to wish you luck.’

  ‘I do not need luck,’ I said curtly. ‘I have God on my side.’ Then, thinking I sounded like an ingrate, added, ‘But I thank you, sir. I could not have proceeded thus far without you.’ I withdrew a folded paper from my tunic. ‘Here is your drawing of the palace. I have committed it to memory as best I can.’

  A man in black attire was waiting for us outside the room. He was holding a torch to illuminate the corridor.

  ‘This is Martin Fairweather,’ Edward Perch told me. ‘He may be trusted. He has suffered the tortures so favoured by the Principal Secretary.’

  Perch then shook my hand, crossed himself and walked away.

  ‘Follow me,’ Martin Fairweather instructed.

  It was a cloudy night with no moon to light the shrouded alleyways and overhung passages of Southwark. The Bear Garden stood very close to the bank of the Thames. We left through a back door as crowds began to gather at the front for the evening’s entertainment. I followed Martin Fairweather in silence down to the river, placing my trust in God.

  A short flight of worn stone steps took us close to the water’s edge. In the gloom, I could just make out a small boat bobbing on the swell. A man whose face was obscured by shadow helped us into the boat and indicated that we should lie down and cover ourselves with a pair of large sacks. I felt the vessel move off into the stream as it began to rain, heavy drops pelting the surface of the water and soaking the sackcloth.

  Although I knew it was no more than four leagues to the Queen’s palace at Hampton, it felt as though we were on the river for an eternity. The rain was unrelenting, and the knot of anxiety in the pit of my stomach made me feel nauseous. It was freezing, but I was lathered in sweat and the rough wet sacking irritated my face and hands. I could feel fleas biting me all over. At last, the little boat slowed and I heard the scrape of reeds against its hull and a dull thump as we knocked against the bank. I risked pulling the sack away from my face and peered out over the side into the blackness.

  Crouching low, the boatman took the few steps back to where we lay. ‘I go no further,’ he whispered. Throwing our bags on to the bank, Martin Fairweather and I slipped over the side into the water. It came up to our chests and I gasped as the freezing shock cut through me. It took me several attempts to scramble up the muddy bank. I only made it thanks to a shove from Martin.

  The boatman waited to ensure we were safely on dry land, and then, without a word, turned his boat for Southwark and vanished into the night. We quickly changed into fresh clothes, put our soaking wet garments into the bags, then tied these to a large stone before lowering them among the reeds. We were now dressed as guards in red hose, leather tunic and white ruff.

  ‘We are a short distance downriver from the palace,’ Martin said in a hush. ‘I’ll lead the way. There is a concealed iron gate in the outer wall, to the east of the main buildings. If Edward’s boys have earned their keep we should find it unlocked. Once inside the perimeter we should have little difficulty in finding access to the palace itself. No one will notice two more anonymous guards.’

  The terrain was rough. Snow had settled and been only partly thawed by the recent rain. The mud beneath had been frozen solid for weeks. Across a field and through an avenue of trees we saw the palace for the first time. I had marked it from the river before, but never at such close quarters. It seemed larger than life: brick walls rising from snow-powdered gardens, great rectangular chimneys rearing up into the cloud-smudged night. There were a few yellowy lights showing in the upper windows on the eastern side of the building. These, I knew from the diagram Edward Perch had given me, were the Queen’s private quarters.

  We kept to the shadows of trees as best we could until we reached the flint outer wall. In the gloom, it looked quite featureless but Martin led us east and soon we found the gate he had described. It looked as if it had not been used in many a year. The metalwork was a rusted lattice and the hinges groaned as Martin pushed against it. A few inches in it stuck fast, but there was just enough room for us to squeeze between the edge of the gate and the stone wall.

  A long hedge ran parallel to the wall. We could see through its intertwined branches that on the other side a grass parterre stretched ahead as far as a gravel footpath. Beyond that lay a flower bed, and then the wall of the palace itself.

  Martin was searching the ground beneath the hedge. Kneeling on the hard earth, he chipped away at a patch with his dagger. I heard him curse, saw him shake his head. Then I caught a glimmer of metal in the faint light. He leaned forward and chopped at the ground with renewed enthusiasm. Pulling on something just under the surface, he straightened and held up in both hands a guard’s pike. He handed this to me and scrabbled away at the earth again until he found a second weapon – a sheathed sword and belt. ‘The boys have done well,’ he told me. ‘Our uniforms are now complete. Come, this way.’

  Martin slipped out from under the hedge first, beckoning me to follow. We carefully scraped away fragments of hard soil that had clung to our boots and rubbed any residue from our knees. Stepping on to the footpath, we marched with all the authority we could muster towards the first entrance into the building we could see, a heavy oak door that swung open on to a dark corridor.

  We could hear voices coming from the end of the passage and a pale light spilled from a door left ajar. The rooms leading from the corridor were kitchens. Beyond them, a servants’ staircase led up to the main dining hall.

  We passed the kitchens at a fast walk. Running would have drawn attention to us and we had already made good time. Some drama was unfolding nearby. I could hear one of the cooks screaming at a subordinate, and then the crash of pans, curses and a yelp. A short, very plump man slammed open the door into the corridor and almost bowled me over. I managed to step to one side just in time to avoid a collision. He seemed to be almost totally oblivious to our presence and stamped off, swearing and mumbling curses.

  The stairs were narrow and enclosed. We turned off at the first landing and marched along a passage that opened out on to a galleried area. The Queen’s quarters were directly overhead, on the second floor, but I knew we could not risk going there yet. Instead, I took the lead and we followed the gallery round to a grand staircase on the far side. I took us down the stairs, tapping the pike against the steps as I went.

  The bottom of the stairs opened on to a large hallway with doors leading off in all directions. A footman was hurrying towards the main doors at the end. Two men in the attire of bakers were carrying what looked like heavy wicker baskets. They were accompanied by a guard who directed them to the servants’ stairs. Two more guards stood at the far end of the hall. We had arrived a little earlier than planned and took up position at the foot of the stairs.

  For several minutes, Martin Fairweather and I watched the comings and goings of the Royal household. It was clear the servants rarely stopped working. Dinner had been served hours earlier, and the Queen would now be in her bedchamber, but the kitchen staff were preparing for the next day and the tradesmen were doing late-night rounds so that everything would be ready for the morning.

  I had just turned to glance at Martin, standing opposite me at the foot of the stairs, when the nerve-racking interlude ended. Two men in guards’ uniforms crashed through the front doors. ‘Fire!’ one of them screamed. ‘Quickly, the north tower!’

  A man rushed past us from a door behind the stairs and spun round on his heel. He was clearly a senior guard, his lined face and pronounced limp evidence of long service to his Queen. ‘Come on!’
he yelled at us. ‘What you waiting for?’

  We ran after him the length of the hall. The two guards who had been stationed at the far end had followed the men who’d raised the alarm. As we neared the end of the hall, the senior guard took the corner with surprising speed and Martin and I dived under a narrow archway, almost tripping over each other on the steep stone stairs that fell away just beyond the opening. I grabbed a handrail and Martin slammed into my back, the handle of his sword knocking into my hip making me cry out in pain.

  We emerged back into the hall with Martin leading the way and came face to face with the senior guard who had yelled orders at us only a few moments earlier. He had his sword drawn. ‘What in God’s name is wrong with you?’ he screamed. In a panic, I lowered my pike threateningly. He fell back and took up a defensive stance. Martin unsheathed his sword and took a step towards the man.

  ‘Go!’ he yelled to me.

  I hesitated for a second then turned and ran towards the stairs, my heavy boots echoing on the marble floor as I picked up pace. A guard emerged from a door to my left. He looked at me and then at the scene along the hall. Without hesitating, I plunged my pike into his chest. He fell back, his face frozen in shock and terror. I yanked out the pike and ran on. At the foot of the stairs, I glanced back and saw the old guard knock Martin’s sword from his hand and force him back to the wall at the tip of a dagger. I was torn between running on up the stairs and dashing back to help Martin. But my decision was made for me.

  The guard kept Martin pinned against the wall with the dagger and slid his sword into my friend’s abdomen, levering it up towards his heart. Martin gasped and began to choke on his own blood. Sneering, the guard leaned closer, pushing in the steel blade with all his weight behind it. But the sneer faltered, to be replaced by an expression of bewilderment. Two lines of blood rolled from the guard’s nostrils and he fell back, a dagger in his chest. Martin turned his head painfully in my direction. ‘Go,’ he gurgled, and slid down the wall.

  I took the stairs three at a time. Reaching the top, I spun to my left and ran as fast as I could along the carpeted gallery. From far off, I could hear shouts and the faint smell of burning. At the end of the gallery, a second staircase led upwards. I slowed to a stately pace and tried to proceed calmly, in spite of the fear raging through me. Marching along the gallery on the second floor, I could see ahead of me the doors into the Queen’s private chambers. A guard stood to one side.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he exclaimed. ‘I was told to wait here. Simon said something about a fire. He’s gone to find out.’

  I shrugged and looked to my left suddenly as though I had just seen something strange. The guard followed my gaze and I slammed the shaft of my pike into the side of his head. He swayed, half-stunned, and before he could cry out, I plunged my dagger into his throat. Slicing it away from me, I ripped a great gash along his neck. He dropped like a stone, his blood splashing on to my leather tunic.

  I opened the door and stepped inside. In the small antechamber a sumptuous Persian rug lay on the floor and the walls were covered with murals: scenes from an Athenian pageant. A door the other side of the chamber was half-open. I leaned against the wall and peered into the next room through the narrow space between the back edge of the door and its frame. A young woman was arranging a gown over a long stool. A mirror on the wall showed the room behind her. It was otherwise empty. I slid around the door and into the second room.

  The girl heard me and spun around to face me. She was probably no more than seventeen and exquisitely beautiful, with huge, doleful brown eyes and full ruby lips. Her long golden hair was artfully arranged in curls around her pretty face and two narrow plaits ran back on each side of her head and were caught up behind it. I rushed towards her, managing to get my hand to her mouth before she could make a sound. She struggled, landing a kick in my groin that sent a terrible pain up into my abdomen. One of her hands came round and she dug her nails deep into my cheek, raking them downwards, taking flesh and skin with them. I stifled a scream and thrust an arm around her neck. She bit the palm of my hand, clutched to her mouth, but I held on. I knew not what to do. I could not risk trying to knock her unconscious and tying her up. I felt possessed, fury burning in my guts, full of a crazed desire to do whatever it took to kill the Queen. I twisted the girl’s neck and heard it snap. I lowered her to the floor, limp and lifeless.

  The door to the Queen’s chamber was closed. I eased the handle round and prayed the hinges had been well oiled. They had. The door opened silently inwards. The only light in the room came from a single large candle set in a magnificent gold holder which occupied an alcove close to a row of windows overlooking the most splendid gardens in England.

  The room was dominated by a massive four-poster bed. Each of the four posts was carved out of oak. Faces of strange creatures from the depths of dreams emerged from the wood. They were accompanied by nymphs and wolves, hunters, stags and gargoyles. Hanging down beside the posts were rich, red velvet drapes. These had been drawn across three sides of the bed, but on the side closest to me, a swathe of the finest silk formed a diaphanous screen. In the bed lay the Queen of England. She was on her back, her head propped up on a pile of pillows, her arms over the sheets. She was snoring softly. She moved suddenly and I froze. She twisted on to her side, facing me, farted and turned on to her back again.

  I took a step forward and parted the silk screen. I could see her face now. She looked much older than I had imagined. Her face was leathery and lined, but her eyelids were gossamer-like, lightly veined and frail. I pivoted the top of the ring and gazed at the spike that rose up as the emerald fell away. And I paused.

  Time seemed to come to a halt. The silence of the room filled me with sudden dread. We were in a cocoon, isolated from the world. Nothing of reality could reach me now. I looked again at Her Royal Highness Elizabeth Tudor. She appeared completely powerless. This was not the woman who ruled a kingdom, wielded a power that awoke fear in the hearts of men, ruled by Divine Right. This was not the sovereign who had sent the Spanish Armada packing. This figure on the bed was just an old woman, flesh and blood, like any other.

  I leaned forward, brought my hand over the edge of the bed, closed my eyes and thrust forward.

  The first thing I noticed was the sound … a whoosh! A rush of air close to my arm … and then the pain. My eyes opened wide and I saw the blade slicing through my hand and my fingers tumbling to the bed. Blood flooded out of me, spraying across the horrified face of Queen Elizabeth who had leapt from her bed into a waking nightmare.

  I could not scream. No sound would come. I sensed someone beside me. He grabbed my arm and I felt the tip of a sword press against my throat. He was about to plunge the blade into me.

  ‘No!’ the Queen shouted, her face as pale as death.

  ‘But … Your Majesty!’

  ‘I said, no, William.’

  I managed to turn my head as the blade was snatched away from my throat. Standing with his sword arm stiff and straight, in line with his out-thrust chin, stood Anthony.

  Newgate Prison, London, March 1589

  And so now I come to the end of my confessional, for that is what this sorry tale really is, the confession of a failed assassin.

  I can hear the sound of boots outside my cell and the clanking of keys as the guards arrive to take me to my place of execution.

  At this moment, I feel strangely calm. Oh, do not doubt I have had many nights of terror as I have foreseen my fate. In my dreams, I have already felt the executioner’s blade disembowelling me. There have been many times when I wished I would die from the torture I have received. But thanks to the skill of the Royal Physician I have been kept from Heaven’s Gate … temporarily. And now a new hope pervades my mind. For I know that although I failed in my mission to kill the Tudor whore, still I served God with my every fibre, my entire heart, my entire soul. And I like to believe the Lord will forgive me my failure and welcome me into Heaven.

  Here, in
this prison, I have heard strange and terrible things. My guard has taken great pleasure in relating how Ann Doherty died, and how Edward Perch sobbed like a baby as the hangman placed the noose around his neck. His latest news was to tell me that the Queen herself will be attending my execution. Well, we shall see.

  And my nemesis – what of him? Anthony is a kinsman of Walsingham. My gaoler’s tittle-tattle informs me that, to perfect his role in my downfall, he took lessons from no less a figure than London’s greatest thespian, Edward Alleyn. Now, even through my pain and my fury, I cannot deny the lad’s skill, God curse him.

  Ah, the clanking grows louder. And there goes the door. I fear my time has drained to nothing. What will be my final words? Shall I scream outrage and splash bile on to the page? No, I shall not. For I have the best of it. Soon, I shall meet my Lord. I shall once again be with Sebastian, with Ann, and all the other martyrs who have died for the One True Faith. For, Lord, Yours is the Power, and the Glory, for ever and ever. Amen.

  Stepney, Friday 10 June, 6.30 p.m.

  Pendragon clicked on the digital recorder in Interview Room 2 and leaned back in the chair with his fingers interlocked in his lap. ‘Maybe we should start at the beginning,’ he told Nigel Turnbull.

  The young man was so grossly overweight, his buttocks overflowed both sides of the metal chair. Studying him closely for the first time, Pendragon realised that Turnbull looked at least ten years older than his true age. He was completely bald and there were lines under his eyes. His massive forehead was beaded with sweat.

  ‘I was DJ-ing at The Love Shack when some dead dude came through the air duct in the ceiling. That’s all I know about your investigation, DCI Pendragon.’