A Brood of Vipers

such close combat and, believe me, I used them. My elbow went into the princely ear of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, my boot into the crotch of Sir Henry Norris. Then I grasped the log, swinging it round like a hero, I ran back to the bank and triumphantly slung it down. Well, you know the mob – and a mob's a mob whatever it wears, shot silk or rat skins – its mood is fickle, Henry's courtiers cheered me up to the darkening sky. I glared in triumph at Benjamin, but he shook his head warningly. Old Shallot, however, couldn't give a fig.
    We lined up and went in again. My fingers went up different orifices. I kicked, bit, nipped and, once again, 1 placed the log on the bank. Old Henry was a sight to see. Puce-faced with anger, he glared at his courtiers. The shouting died down. They had forgotten the first rule – Henry never lost. I was, in any case, beginning to calm down though, on the next throw of the log, I had no choice. Norris and Brandon held me down under the water. Fat Henry, his broad, wet buttocks quivering like a boar's ran to the bank with the log then jumped up and down to the plaudits of the crowd. He reminded me of a fat, overgrown, red-faced baby, full of hot air at both ends.
    We toed the line for the fifth time. Whoever took the log in this round would be the victor. I had enough cunning and wit not to win. However, I planned to amuse myself. There was a fair scrimmage, people bending over, pushing, shoving, sweating and cursing. At last I saw my chance. Henry was bending down, legs apart. I squatted behind him, thrust my hand up into his groin and gave his nuts a vice-like squeeze. I ran like a greyhound before the beast could look round. He yelped like a whipped dog but still seized that bloody log and staggered as the victor to the bank. The claque of courtiers applauded him. I, grinning sheepishly from ear to ear, played the role of the valorous vanquished. I stole a look at Henry and my heart leapt with pleasure. He was still puce-faced, grimacing with pain as he clawed surreptitiously at his codpiece.
    After that the banquet ended. Benjamin dragged me back to our chamber. I stripped, opened the window and threw my best but now muddy clothes through it. The bastards can have those as well!' I bellowed.
    I washed, finished off the wine, clambered into bed and, within a few seconds, was fast asleep. I woke the next morning fresh as a daisy, roused Benjamin and went down to the buttery to break our fast.
    'What now?' I grumbled between mouthfuls of bread and cheese.
    I was also making obscene gestures at the cook, who had refused me some of the pork, coated with mustard and spices, that was roasting slowly over a spit. It smelled delicious.
    'We'll wait and see what "dear uncle" wants,' Benjamin replied.
    'Dear uncle' soon made his presence felt. A chamberlain ponced in, shouting our names, and, without further ado, led us up into the royal apartments and through into Wolsey's privy chamber. The cardinal and his king were ensconced in quilted chairs before the fire, murmuring, heads together, as Wolsey sifted through documents. The chamberlain announced us and withdrew. The precious pair ignored us. We, of course, were kneeling as protocol demanded. The two bastards kept on talking. I looked at Benjamin but he shook his head, warning me with his eyes to be patient. Well, I was still furious after the escapade of the night before. I had a special liking for my murrey jacket with its silver piping and gold buttons and I don't like to be insulted. So I did the only thing a man could do and not be blamed. I felt my tummy grumble and I farted like a dray horse. Benjamin's head went down, shoulders shaking. Henry turned slightly, one blue eye gleaming like a piece of ice. Wolsey looked so horrified, I felt like asking whether cardinals farted or whether there was a difference between their stomachs and those of other human beings. 'What!' the king exclaimed.
    Well, you know old Shallot, in for a penny in for a pound. I farted again, loud and braying like a trumpet blast.
    'You varlet!" The king sprang to his feet, glaring furiously down at me.
    He reminded me of that horror of a schoolmaster who used to teach me. Wolsey kept staring into the fire. Years later he told me that if he had got to his feet he would have burst out laughing. I rolled my eyes heavenwards.
    'Your Majesty,' I flattered. 'My belly is clutched with fear whenever I enter your august presence.' (I was always a smooth-tongued