Agrippa had left the supper table; he had gone outside to stare at the evening sky. (Or, at least, that's what he told us! I think he went to talk to the dark angel who was his guardian.) Benjamin remained as pensive as he had been since Agrippa's arrival.

'I don't know, Roger," he muttered. 'But Agrippa has mentioned that a dreadful murder has occurred in London and "dearest uncle" wants us there immediately.' 'But he's at Eltham Palace!' I cried.

'We have to go there. And, if "dear uncle" is not in residence, go on to the palace at Westminster.'

I groaned and sat back in the quilted high-backed chair and glared at the remains of the pheasant I had gorged myself on. "Who's been murdered?' I asked spitefully. 'The king?'

Benjamin smiled. 'Someone close to the king. Time will tell.'

(Too bloody straight, it did! Having, in the next few weeks, been chased by Turkish corsairs, murderous secret police, poisonous snakes and professional assassins, I can honestly say, time will sodding tell! Yet that's for the future. I hurry on.)

We left our manor early the following morning. In the nearby village we met up with Agrippa's small troop of mercenaries. They were garbed in black and red, Wolsey's colours, with the gold monogram ‘I.C., for 'Thomas Cardinalis', on their cloaks and the small standards they carried. You wouldn't think they were cardinal's men! Better-looking cadavers can be seen hanging from the scaffold at Smithfield, and that's after they have been there a week! They were the biggest bunch of rascals, guttersnipes and taffeta punks who ever graced the word Christian. I always felt completely at home with them. They came swaggering out of the tavern and embraced me like a long-lost brother.