Free The Borgia Ring by Michael White Page B

earth, a person with friends and family, lovers, children perhaps. Now all these people were long dead, as were their children and their children’s children.
    He snatched up the phone and called Turner back.
    ‘Just had a thought,’ he said. ‘That computer-enhancement software in the media room … can you enhance stills as well as video?’
    ‘’Course.’
    ‘Okay, get hold of the SIM card from Tim Middleton’s mobile. There’s one particular shot of the skeleton where the ring is in clear view. Do what you can with the image.’

Paris, February 1589
    At first, consciousness returned only fleetingly. I remember seeing a shifting pattern of light on the ceiling, feeling hot, then cold; a sensation of extreme pain, then of soporific ease. The first distinct thing that came into view was the face of a beautiful young woman. I have no idea how long I was unconscious or what had caused it, but returning to the waking world to perceive the features of what I took to be an angel smoothed the transition for me. She had large brown eyes, a slender nose and full red lips. She wore a blue kerchief but I could see a few curls of jet-black hair falling across her perfect, pale skin. When she smiled, she reminded me immediately of a Madonna of Cima da Conegliano’s I had once seen in Rome.
    But then she was gone and it felt as though many hours passed before I saw anything else of substance. A hand turned my face to one side and then back. I peered upwards and the face of an old man appeared. I felt a spasm of fear, but I could barely move. He put a finger to my lips and then came around my cot to sit on the edge, close to me.
    ‘I’m sorry I hurt you, my boy,’ he said. ‘But, unfortunately, it was necessary.’ I could see him clearly now. He was old, very old, his skin like parchment. His eyes, though, were those of a much younger man, dark blue and with the clarity of youth. His lips were pale and narrow, nose slightlycrooked. His hair was drained of all colour, like wisps of cloud.
    I still could not move but managed to find my voice, albeit little more than a croak. ‘Where …?’
    ‘You are in my home. You are safe here.’
    ‘Sebastian …’
    ‘Your friend is well.’
    ‘What is this?’
    ‘All will become clearer soon. Now you must rest.’ He touched my forehead and I suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired, as though I wanted nothing but sleep.
    The next time I awoke, the beautiful girl was back. I found I could move a little. As she came close, I grabbed her wrist. Her eyes filled with fear. Some instinct made me realise that this girl was not party to what had happened to me, that she was as much subject to it as I, and I let her go. She stood up and tilted her head to one side.
    ‘You seem much better,’ she said, almost mocking me. Her voice was soft and gentle. She spoke English, but with a strong French accent. ‘Here, drink.’
    She lowered a cup to my lips and I allowed the cold water to trickle down the back of my throat. It was as if it awoke my senses and I suddenly became aware of my physical being. All at once I felt hungry and thirsty. My limbs seemed to come to life, my vision cleared. I could see the room properly; feel the sheet covering me, and my own nakedness under the cloth.
    And then she was gone. I lifted myself up in the bed and rested my head against the wall behind me. It was a bare room. Cold, grey light came in through a small, shuttered window. I could hear nothing from outside, no sounds of man nor beast. The walls were whitewashed and blank. To one side of the room was a wooden table. On top of it stood a bowl from which steam rose. Behind it, propped against the wall, was a small mirror in a plain silver frame.
    I pulled the sheet away from me and looked down at my body. I was thinner than usual but could move normally and had no visible wounds. I flexed my fingers, moved my arms and legs. Sitting upright, I ran my fingers over my head and was shocked to feel hair, something