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Authors: Paul C. Doherty
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slightly and I am sure she was smiling.
Mandeville and Southgate made to pass us by as they had previously. I stood watching, fascinated by the two characters trailing behind them: they were twins and reminded me of eunuchs with their fat, doughy faces, cod-like mouths and heads shaven as bald as pigeon's eggs.
Suddenly Mandeville turned, came towards us and bowed. (By the way, have you noticed that? How the most sinister of characters are often the most courteous?)
'Master Daunbey, Master Shallot. I see the Santerres have introduced themselves, and perhaps it is time we all got to know each other a little better.' He followed my gaze. I was still watching his bald-headed retainers. 'Oh, may I introduce Geoffrey Southgate and my two clerks, Cosmas and Damien?' The eunuchs bowed. 'Are they twins?' I asked. 'Of course,' Southgate languidly replied.
The two eunuchs, as I called them, now watched me; they had eyes like a frog's, glassy and soulless. I couldn't see a speck of hair on face or head. 'Can't they speak?' my master asked. Mandeville half-turned. 'Cosmas, open your mouth!'
I couldn't believe it. At Mandeville's order, both these nightmare creatures opened their mouths. I saw the red rag of flesh where each tongue should have been and glanced away in disgust. My master, God bless him, just peered closer.
'What happened?' he asked, like some family physician making a diagnosis.
'Oh, they were born in England,' Mandeville replied. 'They were with their parents on a carrack in the Middle Sea when it was taken by Turkish corsairs. Cosmas and Damien, as I now call them, were taken to Constantinople, castrated and made mute eunuchs.' He patted one of them affectionately on his bald pate as one would tap the head of a good hunting dog. 'But they are well educated.'
He looked squarely at me but I knew he was studying both of us. Benjamin may have mystified him but I caught the sardonic glint in his eyes as he dismissed me for a rogue. He suddenly stared over his shoulder at the door as if expecting someone else to join us, then took a step closer. Southgate also leaned forward as if they were two school masters admonishing students.
"The Agentes welcome you,' Mandeville whispered, his voice becoming steely. 'We trapped Buckingham. We can weed out these Templars and discover what His Grace the Cardinal needs, but he is insistent that you join us.'
I stared at their hard faces and, despite Rachel Santerre's charms, the prospect of a journey to Glastonbury in 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
Mandeville and Southgate made to pass us by as they had previously. I stood watching, fascinated by the two characters trailing behind them: they were twins and reminded me of eunuchs with their fat, doughy faces, cod-like mouths and heads shaven as bald as pigeon's eggs.
Suddenly Mandeville turned, came towards us and bowed. (By the way, have you noticed that? How the most sinister of characters are often the most courteous?)
'Master Daunbey, Master Shallot. I see the Santerres have introduced themselves, and perhaps it is time we all got to know each other a little better.' He followed my gaze. I was still watching his bald-headed retainers. 'Oh, may I introduce Geoffrey Southgate and my two clerks, Cosmas and Damien?' The eunuchs bowed. 'Are they twins?' I asked. 'Of course,' Southgate languidly replied.
The two eunuchs, as I called them, now watched me; they had eyes like a frog's, glassy and soulless. I couldn't see a speck of hair on face or head. 'Can't they speak?' my master asked. Mandeville half-turned. 'Cosmas, open your mouth!'
I couldn't believe it. At Mandeville's order, both these nightmare creatures opened their mouths. I saw the red rag of flesh where each tongue should have been and glanced away in disgust. My master, God bless him, just peered closer.
'What happened?' he asked, like some family physician making a diagnosis.
'Oh, they were born in England,' Mandeville replied. 'They were with their parents on a carrack in the Middle Sea when it was taken by Turkish corsairs. Cosmas and Damien, as I now call them, were taken to Constantinople, castrated and made mute eunuchs.' He patted one of them affectionately on his bald pate as one would tap the head of a good hunting dog. 'But they are well educated.'
He looked squarely at me but I knew he was studying both of us. Benjamin may have mystified him but I caught the sardonic glint in his eyes as he dismissed me for a rogue. He suddenly stared over his shoulder at the door as if expecting someone else to join us, then took a step closer. Southgate also leaned forward as if they were two school masters admonishing students.
"The Agentes welcome you,' Mandeville whispered, his voice becoming steely. 'We trapped Buckingham. We can weed out these Templars and discover what His Grace the Cardinal needs, but he is insistent that you join us.'
I stared at their hard faces and, despite Rachel Santerre's charms, the prospect of a journey to Glastonbury in 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
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