'Oh yes,' he replied. 'I am writing to my daughter Louise. She's married to a merchant. In the spring I might be a grandfather.' His face creased into a gentle smile.
You know the proverb: 'never judge a book by its cover'? This certainly applied to Cornelius. He was a most dangerous adversary. I have met the kind before: he would question you gently and elicit more information than any torturer. He had a mocking look in his eyes. I knew that he knew that I knew that Henry planned some subtle trick. This made us all very
knowledgeable but, as Benjamin and I wondered, God knows how we would achieve it.
We spent our first evening in the gatehouse whispering about this. Castor stood like a sentinel at the window, watching the royal mastiffs patrolling the grounds. He was an intelligent beast. He never howled but just growled softly in his throat as if he resented not being able to go down and play with them. Benjamin and I saw a window in the manor open and the lantern flickering. Up above we heard Cornelius's footsteps as he replied with the agreed signal.
'What on earth can we do?' Benjamin murmured. "The mastiffs would tear us to pieces if we tried to cross the grounds. No one can break in to the manor and, even if we did, how long would we survive?' He sighed. 'Ergo, we cannot act until the Orb is moved. On this occasion, Roger, I think we are going to disappoint our royal master.'
I sat on the edge of my bed and stared glumly at the wall. We had not seen Agrippa today but I had a feeling that he would soon arrive with dire warnings from the Great Beast.
'Even if we could get in,' Benjamin continued, 'we still don't have the replica.'
'Oh, I am sure we soon will,' I retorted.
I should have become a fortune-teller, a seer of things yet to come. The next morning, as Benjamin and I prepared to take Castor out on the heath, Kempe arrived. He was by himself and insisted on joining us. We walked out across the sun-dried grass, Kempe chattering about what was happening at court, discussing Skelton's latest satire against Wolsey. However, once we were in the woods and Castor was giving some poor rabbit a run for its life, Kempe led us deeper into the trees. There was an old stump, probably struck by lightning, around which bushes had grown.
Kempe pushed his way through these. I glimpsed a hole in the hollowed trunk, into which Kempe put his hand and drew out a large leather bag. He undid the cord and gently shook the Orb of Charlemagne out. I tell you this, Berkeley was not only a brilliant goldsmith but the most skilled of counterfeiters. The Orb was an exact replica of the one I had seen at Malevel Manor. I weighed it carefully in my hands. It felt and looked the same.
'In a sense it's genuine,' Kempe murmured. 'Real gold.' He pointed to the bands round the rim. 'Precious stones. Only the most skilled craftsman could detect that it was made in London just a few weeks ago and is not a seven-hundred-year-old relic'
'And how in God's name,' Benjamin asked, 'are we to replace one with the other?'
Kempe shrugged. 'The King has confidence in you and Master Shallot. It has to be done.'
'Not now,' I replied. ‘I don't want my leg chewed off or an arrow in my gullet.'
'Do we know when the Orb will be moved?' Benjamin asked. 'Or how?'
Kempe shook his head. Benjamin beat his gloves against his thigh.
'This is impossible.'
Kempe pulled a face and put the Orb back in the bag.
'I have done my job, Master Daunbey. You must do yours. I will hold this till you are ready.'
'Why not give the King the replica?' I scoffed. 'Will he know the difference?'
Kempe smiled. 'I wondered if you'd think of that. Shallot. Berkeley knows the difference and so do I. There's a secret to the genuine Orb.' He brought his hand down on my shoulder. 'But it's my little secret and you've had your orders.'
We walked back to Malevel, Castor running ahead of us, ears flapping. Kempe collected his horse, hid the Orb in his saddlebag and rode back to The Golden Lion.
Benjamin and I returned to our constant watch. The days passed. The two cooks, Oswald and Imelda, always arrived on time and always left at six o'clock before the dogs were released. On the third occasion I waylaid them by the gate.
'How are things at the manor?' I asked.
'Very quiet,' Oswald replied. 'The place is beginning to smell a little, the jakes needs cleaning. The Noctales don't like the archers and the archers don't like the Noctales. They spend their time gambling, drinking and talking.'
'And Jonathan their leader?'
'He seems nervous,' Imelda replied. 'Like a man walking on eggs; he never stays still.' 'Is he worried?'
'Yes, I think he is. But less so than on the first day.'
The following afternoon Oswald and Imelda left at six. As usual, Cornelius waited for the window to open and, when it did, made the signal back with his own lantern. We spent a desultory evening, my master lying on the bed staring up at the rafters. He had been quiet since his return from Venice. He was pining over the marvellous Miranda, though I also knew that he was deeply worried, not only about the present situation, but about the threats of the Poppletons. He had accepted my assurances that I was innocent of the Great Mouth's death yet he was worried about what would happen if, and when, we returned to Ipswich. I'll be honest: I drank too deeply. I fell asleep wondering how it would be to travel down the west coast of Africa. Nightmares plagued my mind. I envisaged a thousand fearful wrecks; fishes gnawing upon my bones; lying amongst dead mens' skulls or being cast up on some lonely shore waiting for the terrors to appear from the dark forest. I was woken roughly enough by Cornelius kicking at my bed. At first he was so excited he spoke in German but then he calmed down. It was the first time I had seen him look fearful.