'Some of it,' Benjamin replied.
'Well, according to legend,' Agrippa continued, addressing me, 'Mary Magdalene, after the Resurrection of Christ, allegedly fled Palestine and took ship to Marseilles. She was accompanied by Lazarus and others who had known Christ during his lifetime.
Well, to cut a long story short, the legend says that Mary Magdalene married and from her line sprang the Merovingians, the sacred, long-haired kings of France who fashioned the Orb.' Agrippa sipped from his goblet. 'So we now have a pretty little potage. The Emperor's men are in London led by their ambassador the Count of Egremont. He is assisted by those they call the Men of the Night, the Noctales.' 'And the French?' I asked.
'They're here too, not to mention the Pope's envoys, all vying to buy the Orb.' 'And the King?'
'Oh, he's loving every minute of it, like a young maid being courted. First he favours one side, and then another, simpering and pouting.'
(I could just imagine it. Henry liked to see himself as the warrior, the huntsman, the great lover. Well, if the truth be known, as a warrior he could just about swing a sword. And as a lover? Alas, let's put it this way, he wasn't well endowed. Rather small like a little pig. You don't believe me? Well, I'm a man who has slept with Anne Boleyn and what she told me, between giggles, is not worth repeating, particularly if there are ladies about. My little clerk shakes his head in disbelief. I rap him across the wrist with my ash cane. Go down to the muniment room in the Tower, says I, and search out the last letter poor Anne sent to Henry whilst she lay in the Tower. She makes no bones about it then. What I really want to say is that I sometimes suspect Henry would have loved to have been a woman. He certainly liked to be pursued. He liked to simper and be coy and - no, don't think it's the time to tell you about the occasion I found him dressed in one of Anne of Cleve's gowns!)
'But Henry will give it to the Germans?' Benjamin asked.
'Yes, yes, I think he will. He's just baiting France and the Papacy.'
'But it doesn't concern us, does it?' I asked.
'No, I don't think it will,' Agrippa replied slowly. 'The Orb will be removed from the Tower - it needs re-burnishing - and then passed over to Egremont to verify that it's no forgery.'
(A wise man, Egremont, I wouldn't have trusted Henry as far as I could spit.)
'But it doesn't concern us?' I repeated, fearful lest the Great Beast invited us into his lair.
'I've told you I don't think it will,' Agrippa replied. He drummed gloved fingers on the table. 'Yet the King is a fool, he is playing with fire. The orb is no bigger than a tennis ball. It could be replicated, it could be stolen. Every footpad and counterfeit-man in London will hear of it. They'll smack their lips, narrow their eyes and speculate on what a fortune they could make.' Agrippa tapped his knife against the wine glass, the sound tinkling through the room like a fairy bell. 'There'll be trouble,' he declared. 'The Orb of Charlemagne is unlucky. Harold insisted on carrying it, and he was killed at Hastings. Rufus treated it like a bauble and he was mysteriously shot by an arrow in the New Forest. Edward II gave it to his catamite Piers Gaveston as a present and both were murdered.' He scratched his chin, a faraway look in his eyes. 'And I remember Richard II, that golden-haired boy. You have seen the Wilton diptych 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.