BIRTH RIGHT is the second novel in the Closely Guarded Secret series. It is an absorbing and captivating read that delves deep into life as a catholic in Tudor London during the reign of King HenryV111 and the English Reformation.
It is a story of a quest by a naive orphan, Juan Zaragozoa, raised by the catholic church in Aragon Spain, and now a practicing acolyte in the Chapel of Acon in Cheapside London.
He sets out to discover who murdered his English mentor and father figure, Robert Packington M.P. In doing so he is confronted by the reality of life outside the seclusion of his religious upbringing.
When murdered, Packington was aware of one of the most closely guarded secrets in Christendom. A secret, that somehow involved Juan, known only by a select few outside of the Vatican.
Juan is drawn into a sectarian conspiracy beyond his wildest imagination and understanding. It causes him to question his very being and his faith.
It was 1536, during the reign of King Henry V111. London had become a dangerous place with robbery and murder becoming commonplace. England had been in religious and political turmoil ever since the King had severed links with Rome and declared himself as the Supreme Head of a new church, The Church of England.
Henry vacillated, choosing which parts of each doctrine suited his own purposes. Religious sectarian crimes were common. Protestants looked to prosecute the new order, Catholics looked to keep the old.
On the night of the twelfth of November there had been a thick fog, worsened by the smoke from chimneys across the landscape of London’s rooftops. Embers of fires had been dampened down in their grates. Citizens slept tucked up in their beds to keep out the early winter damp and chill, with heavy eiderdowns for the rich, layers of clothing or sacks in impoverished homes.
It was a dark and dismal morning. Not long after dawn the rising sun was struggling to penetrate and lift the fog. There was still a remnant of a thick mist in the air. In Cheapside, the chapel in the grounds of the St Thomas of Acon Hospital drifted in and out of focus in the mist like a foreboding ethereal shrine of enormous size.
Hiding in the dark enclave of the chapel buttresses, a stranger to the community was biding his time. The only evidence of his being there was the occasional sparkle as a shaft of sunlight appeared through the mist striking the cross that he wore hanging on a gold chain around his neck.
He was cool, calm and collected. He was a member of The Society of Jesus, Omiglio. He had enacted the Vatican’s instructions many times before. It was not for him to question his approaching deed; it was the will of God. He was ready, he checked the priming mechanism of his weapon concealed beneath his cloak.
The eerie silence was broken only by the sound of the gong farmer who had just finished his night round of removing human excrement from outside privies and piles of straw containing horse manure. His heavy horse and cart could be heard clattering past the chapel over the cobbled street, steam rising from the pile of foul-smelling dung.
Chambermaids and skivvies were busy stoking up the grates of bedroom fires of the rich and middle classes. Poorer children before getting dressed waited for their mothers to stoke up the only fire in the house in the downstairs room before getting out of bed. Tudor London was waking up to another day. A day that would change the lives of many. A day that would end the life of one.
As he waited an owl hooted in the distance, a black cat crossed his path and looked up at Omiglio snarling bearing its two front fangs. Not long after a raven circled and settled on the buttress above him. Death was in the air.
Inside the chapel, Father Francis de Ridefort was preparing for morning mass. The chapel was open to all, with a local congregation of rich and poor residents alike. Francis had a particular affinity with the place that he had served since his ordination as a catholic priest twenty years ago.
He was a devout catholic, who like many of his fellow priests had been allowed to continue to practice providing they pledged their allegiance to the King as Supreme Head of The Church of England. If they didn’t, they faced severe consequences, including imprisonment, even execution.
Now in his twilight years, Francis was a short, rotund man who was well liked by his congregation; avuncular, reassuring and trustworthy. He had enjoyed a prosperous living, enjoying the fruits of the parish tithe.
He was wearing a white silk cope over his cassock,
which was adorned with the red cross emblem of The Knights Templar. He wore it in honour of his ancestor Gerard de Ridefort, a grand master of The Templars who fought in the holy wars and died at the fall of Acre,
He was in the middle of blessing the bread for the mornings eucharist. Helping him was his acolyte, Juan Zaragoza. A young man in his early twenties, Juan was of Spanish descent, an orphan since birth and named after the catholic King Juan 11 de Aragon. Juan was tall and handsome; lean with auburn hair and blue eyes without an ounce of fat on him, reflecting his meagre diet. He had a swarthy complexion like many of Spanish descent, spoke softly and was fluent in Spanish, English, French and Latin.
Juan had spent his whole life under the care, protection and tutelage of the Catholic church. At ten years old he was sent by the Vatican to London, to an orphanage at The Priory Church of St Mary of The Assumption in Clerkenwell founded by The Knights Templar and run by Friar Jeronimo de Aguilla.
In the orphanage he had been a solitary child, finding it difficult to make friends with the other boys. They weren’t like him; they didn’t want to learn and were coarse and rough, so he kept himself to himself, losing himself in his books and his prayers. Knowledge to him was everything and with that knowledge he developed an aloofness above his station of a penniless orphan.
He now lived in a tenement owned by the church in nearby Watling Street, under the guidance of Father Francis. He made ends meet out of a small dowry lodged with the church by Friar Jeronimo which he supplemented by catching leeches in the River Fleet and selling them to St Barts Hospital for use in the practice of bloodletting.
Life was simple, built around his duties and dedication to St Thomas’s. His solitude, almost monastic, was only broken when he occasionally dined with Father Francis and Master Robert Pakington, a wealthy patron of the church. His strict secular upbringing hadn’t prepared him for an event which was about to change his life forever. An event that would challenge his faith in God almighty and the teachings of the Catholic Church.
‘Tiss a miserable damp morning out there, enough to chill the bones of the dead.’
‘Yes Father, do you think many will venture out on such a foul morning?’
‘Ah, Juan, you should know by now that a good catholic will move heaven and earth, apologies for the pun, to attend mass.’
Father Francis blessed the remaining unleavened bread, and Juan went ahead to light the alter candles. A few residents had started to meander in to get out of the damp and the cold. The Sisters of Mercy from the hospital provided large urns of hot tisane together with cinnamon jumbles to warm the cockles of their hearts.
Opposite the chapel, Robert Pakington, MP, and Master of The Worshipful Company of Mercers was about to leave home to attend the early morning mass. He was a successful mercer, exporting woollen cloth to Antwerp and importing fine cloth and silk from the continental markets.
Robert lived with his wife, Katherine, and their two daughters in a fashionable red brick house, as befitted his status and wealth. That morning, he was dressed in his dark morning suit as he intended to go straight from mass to his office.
After bidding his wife goodbye with a cursory kiss to her cheek, he left the house and started to cross the road. Katherine quickly closed the heavy oak front door, anxious to get back into the warmth and comfort of her kitchen. She was completely oblivious to the goings on outside.
As he crossed the road, Packington had his head bowed against the bitter wind and was treading carefully to avoid the muddy ruts and the odd droppings from the gong cart. He didn’t want to tarnish his shiny calf length black leather boots that he had imported from Italy.
Omiglio, moving stealthily, silently, suddenly appeared out of the mist and asked him in a foreign accent,
‘Who goes afoot?’
Startled, Packington looked up. Peering into the mist, he was unable to make out who it was, and instinctively called out,
‘Is that you Juan?’
Suddenly without a reply, a loud crack of a gunshot exploded and echoed around the surrounding houses.
The bats in the belfry and pigeons resting on their roosts took flight as the plume of smoke from the exploding gunpowder dissipated into the mist. Pakington clutched his chest, stumbled, dropped to his knees, and then fell forward to the ground in the middle of the muddy, rutted road. His silver topped walking cane clattered to the ground. He had a wound to his chest and the bullet’s entry point on his cloak was smouldering.
As he lay there with his life ebbing away, he found solace in the serene beauty of nature and life. There was no beginning, no end, for he would lie alongside the Angels of the Lord. As darkness descended, he recalled a life well lead with lingering happy memories of days spent with Katherine and the children. Despite his efforts, he could not escape the unavoidable grasp of death.
Omiglio looked around furtively and crossed himself. He threw a gold coin beside his victim and then hastily withdrew into the mist; disappearing from whence he came. His deed was done.
‘Were God to order me through the voices of my superiors to put to death, father, mother, children, brothers and sisters, I would do it with an eye as tearless, and a heart as calm, as if I were seated at the banquet of the Paschal Lamb.’
Affirmation of a Jesuit.