Suddenly a devil appeared beside me, with red hands and feet and a head as bald as a pig. This tormentor lifted a gold-ringed trumpet and brayed a terrible blast. I just stood wondering what would happen. (Even in my dreams, I follow one of the basic tenets of old Shallot's philosophy: In danger always run and, if you can't run, do nothing!) I looked towards the chateau entrance and saw Queen Poison, dreadful as an army in battle array, sweep towards me across the lowered drawbridge, arms extended as if she wished to clasp me to her deceitful bosom. I stared into her white beautiful face, the car-mined lips pursed into a kiss, and crumpled to my knees before this most dread Queen of the Abyss.
I woke stiff as a poker. My back ached, my bum was sore and my mouth caked with the rich tang of the wine. I staggered back to a cold bed but Margot and Phoebe had fled. They always do that, the saucy wenches, they like to tease and make me beg for them to come back. I was too exhausted. I slept the sleep of the just till the chapel bells roused me late this afternoon. Now I feel refreshed, I've downed a venison pie, a tankard of ale and two cups of claret, and have returned to the centre of my maze to dictate my memoirs. I will tell you what happened in that dreadful summer of 1520, for that's what the dream was about.
I am comfortable in my maze which is laid out like the one at Hampton Court was by the Great Killer's chief minister, Cardinal Thomas Wolsey. My chair with its high back and strong iron wheels is positioned correctly to catch the sun. I have a jug of wine, two silver goblets and a jewel-encrusted plate of doucettes. My clerk is also ready. My little Mephistopheles, my darling chaplain. The little turd!