showing Richard between two white harts? In his hand he carries the Orb of Charlemagne. He was deposed and murdered.'
'In which case,' I retorted, 'Henry must be glad to see the back of it!'
'Ah, no.' Agrippa sipped from the goblet. 'If the Orb falls into the wrong hands, which so the legend goes are those who do not have a pure heart -' he winked at me - 'and if it is not treated with respect, then its power is unleashed. But for those who treat it with awe and reverence, it brings its own rewards. Anyway—' He scraped back his chair. 'Time for sleep. Tomorrow, Benjamin, we're for Harwich: the King's ship will take us down to London.'
'Don't say you are tired, Doctor Agrippa,' I teased. 'No, Roger.' He got up, shifting back the chair. 'I just want to sleep, perchance to dream.'
‘ Yes, that's where Will Shakespeare's Hamlet got it from!) 'Of what?' I asked.
'Of golden sands by blue seas. Of galleys laden with exotic perfumes. Well away from this cold Island and its vengeful King.'
In retrospect Agrippa was a prophet. Sometimes I wished I'd sailed to Italy and stayed there but, ah, the foolishness of youth! The next morning we woke well before dawn. Benjamin's bags were loaded on to sumpter ponies. He drew up letters, left me money and gave me hurried snippets of advice. And then we left in a cloud of dust, Agrippa's retainers fanning out before us, making fair speed to the port of Harwich. I won't describe the scene to you and make your gentle eyes weep. I embraced Benjamin and told him not to tarry long. I clasped Agrippa's hand, gave the most obscene gestures to the good doctor's retainers, and headed like an arrow to the nearest tavern to drown my sorrows.
Now I am not a hypocrite. I sat drinking and soon recovered my good spirits. Benjamin was an able, young man, well protected. He'd travel to Venice and then return, so whilst the cat's away ... Nevertheless, I hadn't forgotten my master's look when he forced me to take that oath. No London! No Miranda!
A group of sailors came in, lusty men. everyone a charlatan or swaggerer, so I spent the rest of the day carousing and quaffing with the best of them. I remember a young tavern wench, golden and ripe as an apple, and us bouncing like fleas on her bed at the back of the tavern. Golden times! We giggled and we kissed all night long. The next morning I rose, bent on mischief and of course I found it. Yet, on reflection, life is strange and full of the most deadly coincidences. If I hadn't stayed at that particular tavern, and if I hadn't left it at that hour . . . but, isn't that the mystery of life? Out of the frying pan and into the fire!
I'd collected my horse and was halfway across the market square when I glimpsed the relic-seller, dressed in a colourful motley of rags, laying out his wares on the steps of the market cross. He was tall, and singular looking; his skin burnt brown by the sun, with clear blue eyes and lank, black, greasy hair. Now, one thing about being a rogue (and it's old Shallot's rule) is that you can recognise a good man when you meet one, whilst you can sniff a kindred spirit half a mile away. He introduced himself as Nathaniel Ludgate, and his villainy was as thick as clotted cream. I told him to hold my horse's reins, then walked backwards into the tavern to get us each a pot of ale. I kept my eye on the rogue, a grand idea forming in my mind. He stood grinning at me and, when I returned with the ale, toasted me, his eyes dancing with mischief.
'You are interested in relics?'
'Oh yes,' I replied airily. 'I've even seen the Orb of Charlemagne.'
Well, you should have seen the fellow's face. Eyes popping, jaw slack.
'The Orb of Charlemagne!' he whispered. 'Men would kill for that. Indeed they have.' He scratched his black, pointed heard. 'But, there again, it can bring ill fortune.'
'Are they your work?' I taunted, pointing to the relics he had laid out.'
'No, no, sir.' His voice rose to a chant as he recognised a prospective
'In which case,' I retorted, 'Henry must be glad to see the back of it!'
'Ah, no.' Agrippa sipped from the goblet. 'If the Orb falls into the wrong hands, which so the legend goes are those who do not have a pure heart -' he winked at me - 'and if it is not treated with respect, then its power is unleashed. But for those who treat it with awe and reverence, it brings its own rewards. Anyway—' He scraped back his chair. 'Time for sleep. Tomorrow, Benjamin, we're for Harwich: the King's ship will take us down to London.'
'Don't say you are tired, Doctor Agrippa,' I teased. 'No, Roger.' He got up, shifting back the chair. 'I just want to sleep, perchance to dream.'
‘ Yes, that's where Will Shakespeare's Hamlet got it from!) 'Of what?' I asked.
'Of golden sands by blue seas. Of galleys laden with exotic perfumes. Well away from this cold Island and its vengeful King.'
In retrospect Agrippa was a prophet. Sometimes I wished I'd sailed to Italy and stayed there but, ah, the foolishness of youth! The next morning we woke well before dawn. Benjamin's bags were loaded on to sumpter ponies. He drew up letters, left me money and gave me hurried snippets of advice. And then we left in a cloud of dust, Agrippa's retainers fanning out before us, making fair speed to the port of Harwich. I won't describe the scene to you and make your gentle eyes weep. I embraced Benjamin and told him not to tarry long. I clasped Agrippa's hand, gave the most obscene gestures to the good doctor's retainers, and headed like an arrow to the nearest tavern to drown my sorrows.
Now I am not a hypocrite. I sat drinking and soon recovered my good spirits. Benjamin was an able, young man, well protected. He'd travel to Venice and then return, so whilst the cat's away ... Nevertheless, I hadn't forgotten my master's look when he forced me to take that oath. No London! No Miranda!
A group of sailors came in, lusty men. everyone a charlatan or swaggerer, so I spent the rest of the day carousing and quaffing with the best of them. I remember a young tavern wench, golden and ripe as an apple, and us bouncing like fleas on her bed at the back of the tavern. Golden times! We giggled and we kissed all night long. The next morning I rose, bent on mischief and of course I found it. Yet, on reflection, life is strange and full of the most deadly coincidences. If I hadn't stayed at that particular tavern, and if I hadn't left it at that hour . . . but, isn't that the mystery of life? Out of the frying pan and into the fire!
I'd collected my horse and was halfway across the market square when I glimpsed the relic-seller, dressed in a colourful motley of rags, laying out his wares on the steps of the market cross. He was tall, and singular looking; his skin burnt brown by the sun, with clear blue eyes and lank, black, greasy hair. Now, one thing about being a rogue (and it's old Shallot's rule) is that you can recognise a good man when you meet one, whilst you can sniff a kindred spirit half a mile away. He introduced himself as Nathaniel Ludgate, and his villainy was as thick as clotted cream. I told him to hold my horse's reins, then walked backwards into the tavern to get us each a pot of ale. I kept my eye on the rogue, a grand idea forming in my mind. He stood grinning at me and, when I returned with the ale, toasted me, his eyes dancing with mischief.
'You are interested in relics?'
'Oh yes,' I replied airily. 'I've even seen the Orb of Charlemagne.'
Well, you should have seen the fellow's face. Eyes popping, jaw slack.
'The Orb of Charlemagne!' he whispered. 'Men would kill for that. Indeed they have.' He scratched his black, pointed heard. 'But, there again, it can bring ill fortune.'
'Are they your work?' I taunted, pointing to the relics he had laid out.'
'No, no, sir.' His voice rose to a chant as he recognised a prospective
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