The Grail Murders

the company of this eerie foursome lost any remaining attraction. They both stepped back, bowed and walked out of the court.
    Benjamin watched them go. ‘I wonder what all that was about?' he murmured. 'I just wish dear Uncle would reveal his mind to us.' 'Sirs!' a voice called. 'I heard you talking.'
    We both turned. A young man had come up quietly behind us. Perhaps his approach had warned the Agentes off. He stood as proud and pert as a barnyard cock. I groaned quietly: the fellow looked a troublemaker with his russet leather jacket, tight hose, protuberant codpiece, high-heeled boots and, above all, the basket-hilted sword he kept drumming with his fingers.
    He was a fighting boy, one of those hangers-on who plague every court and nobleman's house, puffed up with their own pride, ever ready to make a quarrel. (Master Shakespeare has borrowed my descriptions of such fellows for Thibault, the swordsman in his excellent play Romeo and Juliet.) The man came closer and doffed his broad-brimmed hat festooned with a cheap plume. His face was sallow with thin bloodless lips and eyes that were narrow and hooded. He thrust his chin forward.
    'Sirs, I asked you a question. What was that conversation about? I come across to join you and your friends immediately leave. Was it at your request? Do you find my presence offensive?'
    Benjamin seized my wrist. 'Be careful, Roger,' he whispered. 'The fellow's looking for a fight.'
    My master was so innocent he was always stating the obvious. Of course I was careful. Old Shallot is a coward! I will run like a whippet at the slightest hint of danger and was preparing to do so then when the fellow blocked my path and poked me in the chest. 'Are you leaving as well, cockscomb?' 'Sod off!' I hissed.
    The man stood back, throwing down his hat and half-drawing his sword. Benjamin stepped in front of me. 'We apologise,' he declared. 'Sir, we meant no offence.' My would-be opponent's eyes didn't leave my face.
    'My quarrel is not with you, Master Daunbey,' he replied softly. 'I have no dispute with the Cardinal's nephew, but this fellow has insulted me.'
    'No, I haven't!' I pleaded. 'I just don't feel well. Sir, let me pass!'
    Benjamin came between us again. 'Stand aside, sir!' he ordered. 'We have no quarrel with you.'
    'No, you haven't, Master Daunbey,' the man repeated and my stomach curdled with fear for the fellow knew our names. This was no accident. The man had deliberately set out to challenge me and, when that happens, two thoughts always dominate my mind. First, can I run? Secondly, if I can't, will I be hurt?
    The fellow drew his sword and rested its cruel point on the ground.
    'Both of you may go,' he said, swaying his hips in a mocking fashion. 'And by supper everyone will be talking about the courage of "Mistress Shallot". Mistress Shallot! Mistress Shallot!' he continued in a sing-song fashion. 'What's the matter, girl?' he taunted and cocked his head sideways. 'With those funny eyes, one is never too sure what you are looking at.' He held up a finger. 'I know, if you bend over and let me smack your bottom with the flat of my sword, I'll let you go.' Now Benjamin's hand went to the hilt of his sword.
    'If you draw, Master Benjamin,' the bully-boy continued. 'I'll just walk away.' 'Please,' I muttered, gazing round the deserted courtyard. 'Please!' the fellow mimicked back. 'You have no choice,' Benjamin whispered.
    So there was I, stomach churning, bowels twisting. I doffed my jerkin, drew my hangar and put as brave a face on it as possible. We took up position. The salute was given, our swords crossed and the duel began. I moved, twisting my sword, one eye closed. The fellow just played with me, moving backwards and forwards. He nicked my wrist. I closed my eyes. He slipped behind me and slapped me on the buttocks with the flat of his sword. 'Mistress Shallot!' he called out.
    I stared at Benjamin but he had looked away. Then a strange thing happened. Old Shallot has always put a high price on his own skin but that blow on the buttocks stirred my pride (wherever it was hiding) and I recalled the words of my duelling master. I opened my eyes and stared at this braggart dancing before me. He represented everything that was wrong in old Shallot's life: the mocking dismissal of Wolsey, the patronising attitude of Agrippa, the sly taunting jibes that I hid behind my master's skirts. In other words, I lost my temper and found my courage.
    My sword came down. I narrowed my eyes and