A Brood of Vipers

and performed a cartwheel. I caught a flurry of white lace and red-heeled shoes, then she landed lightly on her feet at least six yards away from me. She stared at me, hands on hips. 'Can you do that, Crosspatch? Or this?' She came somersaulting back, in a perfect springing movement, head-over-heels, and landed before me, a little red-faced, her small chest heaving, but no more than if she had run down a gallery. She turned, hands on hips, and looked down the table at Lord Roderigo.
    'We are going to have fun with Crosspatch.' She repeated the phrase in Italian and everyone laughed.
    Agrippa saved me from further embarrassment by standing up to make the formal introductions. Benjamin tugged at my sleeve to sit on the stool next to him as Agrippa, in flowery phrases, described each of the Florentine visitors. He then introduced Master Benjamin, drawing respectful looks and nods from the assembled company. My name and title provoked further chuckles of amusement, especially from the dwarf, whom Agrippa introduced as Maria.
    'Shallot?' she asked, bubbling with laughter. 'Shallot means onion. Are you an onion, Master Crosspatch? How many layers do you have? And do you make people cry?'
    'No, Madam," I snapped back. 'I make them laugh, usually on the other side of their faces!'
    I caught the glimmer of hurt in the little woman's eyes and glanced quickly around the table. They regard me just as they do this woman, I thought, as another jester. They are waiting to be entertained. I turned back to Maria, took her tiny hand and raised it to my lips.
    'Madam,' I said, getting to my feet. 'I apologize for my bad manners. It was not your size or your antics that surprised me but your fairness.'
    Maria smiled faintly and, before she slipped her little hand away, pressed my fingers ever so carefully. 'Crosspatch Onion,' she announced, 'is a courtier.'
    This time I joined in the laughter. Lord Roderigo tapped the tabletop. 'Master Daunbey, Master Shallot, we are pleased to meet you. The Lady Maria' – he gestured elegantly to the little woman – 'always rejoices in new acquaintanceship with her countrymen.' His face became serious. 'But the matters before us are most grave. My brother, the Lord Francesco, has been foully slain in a London street. We seek vengeance, but we do not know the killer. His Grace the King and your fair uncle, His Eminence Cardinal Wolsey, have assured us, Master Daunbey, of your skill in hunting down and unmasking murderers. You have been assigned to my household.' He paused so we could take in the emphasis on the word 'my'. 'Whatever your lowly status,' he continued, glancing superciliously at me, 'you are our guests.' He stroked his moustache. 'We look to you for justice to be done!'
    The last words were tinged, however subtly, with a threat. I stared at his 'household', who sat like wooden statues. Nevertheless, I thought, the assassin must be here; beneath the courtly etiquette, tactful murmurs and polite smiles flowed an underlying tension. People can say more with gestures than with torrents of words. I glanced quickly to my right. Little Maria was studying me closely. Agrippa, sitting midway down the table, coughed and spread his hands. He still wore his black gauntlets.
    (Ah, excuse me, my little chaplain, my beloved apple-squire, is jumping up and down. 'Why did he wear those gloves? Why did he wear those gloves?' he pleads. Very good, I'll tell him. I have seen the cross burning red on each of Agrippa's palms, open wounds to remind him of where he came from.
    My chaplain is still not satisfied, he has other questions. 'How could those Florentines understand Agrippa? They surely knew little English.' Now my little noddle is wrong. Listen to Old Shallot. I have been constantly amazed in my long and varied life by how poorly the English can speak their language or anybody else's, yet how quickly others can master our tongue. I don't know why. I was discussing the matter with young Ben Jonson and Walter Raleigh when we met for a meal in our secret chamber in the house of Bethel. Do you know what I told them? I think the English believe God is an Englishman and speaks our tongue. Consequently, we consider it useless learning anyone else's language, whilst insisting that everyone else learns ours?)
    Ah well, back to Agrippa. He was making the usual silky, courtly protestations, but at last he came to the nub of the matter.
    'I have informed Master Daunbey of everything the king has done in this