The King's Evil

Damarosa was seated in profile on a chair in front of a large mirror, using the glow from the candles to artful effect. She was a full-figured young woman in a blue gown which was cut low in the front and which, as the mirror was revealing, plunged almost to the waist at the back. Still in her early twenties, she suggested a blend of youth and experience which was titillating. She had a Mediterranean complexion and cast of feature. Large brown lascivious eyes sparkled with uncompromising zest. Dark hair hung in ringlets. Diamond earrings and a magnificent diamond necklace glittered in the candlelight.

When her guest entered, she rose to curtsey but he waved her back to her seat. He wanted no acknowledgement of his royalty. Sweeping off his hat, he instead gave her a complimentary bow.

'Old Rowley at your service, ma'am.'

'Will you take wine with me, sir?' she said, indicating the seat opposite her. 'I think you will find it palatable.'

'I am sure I shall,' he said, closing one eye and letting the other rove admiringly over her. 'Damarosa, is that your name?'

'Yes.'

'It becomes you, my dear.'

She poured the wine and handed him a glass, raising hers to him in a silent toast before taking a small sip. He tasted his own wine before setting the glass down on the table and taking a swift look around the room. It was exactly as it had been described to him, large, plush, well appointed and possessing a second door. The four-poster took precedence but the decorated screen also made an arresting feature. It stood in the far corner, close to the other door. Old Rowley was very satisfied with his inventory. The only thing which he had not been warned about was the bewitching perfume which filled the air. Damarosa was fragrance itself.

'Your reputation runs before you,' he said.

'Does it?'

'Oh, yes, Damarosa. You were highly recommended.'

'I am flattered.'

'Nothing less than you would suffice for me.'

'Good,' she said, smiling over the top of her glass. 'I am delighted to see you here at last. It is an honour.'

'From what I hear, it is I who have the honour.'

She gave a playful giggle. He watched the dimple in her cheek. Damarosa was slightly nervous and he detected a slight tremble in her hand. He could not decide if she was in awe of his perceived status or if something else was making her tense. Picking up his glass, he tried to put her at ease.

'You will have to teach me, Damarosa.'

'Teach you?'

'I am a new pupil on my first visit here,' he said with boyish candour. 'I do not know what to do and what to say. Tell me, Damarosa. What do the others say?'

'The others?'

'Guests who have been fortunate to make your acquaintance already. When you bring them in here, of what do they speak?'

Another giggle. 'Themselves.'

'Wild boasts and foolish promises?'

'Yes,' she said. 'Most of them like to talk about their work so that I know how important they are. They want me to know how privileged I am. That is beforehand, anyway.'

'And afterwards?'

'It is very different.'

'In what way?'

'They say the nicest things imaginable.'

'I will remember that.' He pondered. 'Damarosa.'

'Yes?'

'I do not like the sound of beforehand.'

'Oh?'

'It is such a waste of time,' he said, reaching out to stroke her hair. 'And I am certainly not ready for afterwards yet. Why do you not show me what happens in between the two?'

She nodded eagerly. After taking a long sip of her wine, she kissed the fingers of one hand then touched his lips with them before flitting off behind the screen. He rose from his seat and turned his back, watching in the mirror out of the corner of his eye and noticing that she opened the other door to slip silently out. He put his glass down and adjusted his periwig, when he heard a sound behind him, he realised that his earlier inventory had been incomplete. It had omitted the third person who had remained in the room with them throughout.

The man came slowly out from behind the screen and crept towards him with a long scarf held between his hands. He got within a yard of the King, intending to slip the scarf around his neck in order to throttle him. But his quarry was prepared this time. The assassin was not dealing with an unsuspecting companion in a dark cellar or with a puny lawyer aboard a ship. Before he could slip the scarf into position, the man was struck by such a powerful blow that he was knocked off balance and fell to the floor. His victim then flung himself on top of him and tore the scarf from his grasp. They wrestled furiously. The disguise could now be abandoned.

Christopher Redmayne could be himself now, strong, supple and determined. As he straddled the man's chest, he held him by the wrists and looked down at a livid white mask.

'I have been waiting for you to come, my friend,' he said.

'I'll kill you!' roared the other.

'Who is paying you this time? Monsieur Bastiat?'

The man tried to throw him off but Christopher had too firm a purchase on him. His assailant twisted, turned, bucked and kicked in order to get free, his head flailing so violently that it beat out a rhythm on the carpet. There was a snapping sound and the mask suddenly went rolling across the floor, exposing a face so hideous that Christopher froze momentarily in disgust. It was red, raw and oozing with malignancy. Skin was peeling readily and he was reminded of the tiny white flakes he saw near the dead body of Sir Ambrose. It was the final confirmation of guilt.

The royal assassin was afflicted with the King's Evil.

Christopher's pause was a mistake. Taking full advantage of it, the man threw him off, leapt to his feet and dived behind the screen to grab his walking stick. With a flash, he had extracted the sword that was concealed inside it. Christopher acted with speed himself, clambering up and snatching the wine decanter to throw its contents over the other's face. It produced a cry of fury. Temporarily blinded, the man lashed out viciously with the sword but Christopher stepped out of range. When he was able to see properly again, the assassin was not facing an unarmed King who was completely off guard. He was up against a resourceful young man who had pulled out a dagger from inside his boot and who was crouched in readiness.

They circled each other warily, looking for an opening.

'Who are you?' hissed the man.

'A friend of Sir Ambrose. I have much to thank him for.'

'So have we,' said the other with a harsh laugh. 'He made it all possible. Sir Ambrose was a fool. Every man can be led by the pizzle if you find the right woman and we chose the ideal one for him.'

'Marie Louise. I met her.'

'She had him eating out of her hand.'

He jabbed at Christopher but the thrust was expertly parried.

'Was it her idea to make him convert?' said Christopher.

'That was another ruse to buy time. Marie Louise told him that she would never share his bed until he became a Roman Catholic. Only then would she consent to be his mistress.'

'Mistress. Was there no talk of marriage?'

'She already has a husband.'

'A husband?'

'She is Marie Louise Charentin.'

Christopher was taken aback. The man saw his chance and jabbed with his sword again. Christopher stepped to the right but he was too slow this time and his left arm was caught by the blade. It cut through his coat and opened up a gash. The pain revitalised him and he went on the attack, stabbing at his adversary with his dagger and fending off the answering thrusts of the sword. Blood was now gushing down his left arm but he still had enough strength in it to snatch off his periwig and hurl it into the man's face. The assassin stumbled backwards, his sword flailing. Christopher ducked beneath it to strike at the man's sword-arm with his dagger. As his flesh was pierced to the bone, the man gave a yell of rage and dropped the weapon.

Kicking it out of reach, Christopher used the handle of his dagger to club the man to the floor then dropped on top of him to pound away with his fist. The flaking skin was soon dripping with blood. Though he fought hard, the man had nothing like Christopher's manic strength and willpower. A final punch knocked him senseless and his head lolled. Christopher moved swiftly to bind his hands with the scarf; he used the bed hangings to secure his prisoner to the four-poster. It was only then that he slipped off his coat to attend to his wound, stemming the flow of blood by winding a handkerchief around his arm. Putting on his coat again, he replaced his periwig, adjusted it in the mirror and stepped out through the door with regal dignity.

Two figures watched furtively from the end of the corridor. Molly Mandrake and her companion were dismayed when they saw the King emerge, apparently unscathed. The man with Molly was a stranger but Christopher guessed his identity at once. Henry's description of the Frenchman had been very accurate.

'Monsieur Charentin?' challenged Christopher.

Gripped by panic, the man took flight, pushing Molly Mandrake unceremoniously aside and darting for the side door. He unlocked it and rushed out only to find that he had gone straight into the arms of Jonathan Bale. There was the briefest of struggles before the constable overpowered him and held him tight. Christopher stood in the doorway.

'Well done, Mr Bale!'

Jonathan recognised his voice and gaped at him.

'Is that you, Mr Redmayne?'

'Who did you think it was?' said Christopher with a grin. 'Be of good cheer, my friend. You did not have to act as a royal bodyguard, after all. I know that office would have ruffled your Roundhead feathers.'

'Why did you not tell me?'

'I just did, Mr Bale. Hold on to Monsieur Charentin. His accomplice is trussed up inside. Unmasked at last.'

'You have caught him?'

'The murders are finally solved.'

An agitated Henry came trotting up behind his brother.

'Is everything in hand, Your Majesty?' he asked deferentially.

'It is now, Henry.'

'You should have called me, if you needed help.'

'I never need help in a lady's bedchamber.'

'Word somehow leaked out of your presence here,' said Henry, who had clearly been unable to resist boasting about it. 'Everyone wanted to know how I persuaded Your Majesty to come here. I was just explaining to Mr Strype the blandishments I used.'

'Mr George Strype?'

'The same.'

Christopher eased him aside and went straight to the parlour. The black manservant stood dutifully beside the table, serving food and drink. An ancient guest was being pampered by a young prostitute. Two other men were bartering for the favours of a second woman. George Strype was talking airily to Sweet Ellen, guzzling his wine and boasting loudly about his prowess as a lover. When he saw the stately figure enter, he at once became subservient. He gave Christopher a deep bow.

'This is a pleasure, Your Majesty.'

The uppercut caught him on the chin and sent him sprawling.

'So was that,' said the other cheerfully.

Strype rubbed his jaw and looked up in utter bafflement.

'Your Majesty?'

'Christopher Redmayne sends his compliments.'