

Beowulf is Back

Will Shand

Published by Will Shand at Smashwords

Copyright Will Shand 2014

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Chapter One

In which Roscow reflects upon the series of misfortunes and setbacks that have driven him, together with Beowulf and Gareth (the former Royal Dog) into hiding in the mountains. He bewails the lot of those who are born to serve and finally reveals absolutely no prophetic genius whatsoever.

Roscow hunched his shoulders, sighed audibly and waited. Predictably, no response came and so he set off to follow Beowulf and Gareth up the steep, narrow, snow covered path. 'Path' was probably not the first word Roscow would have chosen to describe the narrow, treacherous route that rose precipitously up and around the snow covered crags, high above the tree lined valley. 'Goat track' seemed more accurate, or perhaps 'perilously thin ledge overhanging a humongous drop'; but, as he felt his feet sliding in the thick, deep, new fallen snow he decided that 'death trap' did the job quite nicely. He steadied himself. Things could be worse.

In fact, things had been worse, but not by much. It had seemed a very good idea to fall in with Beowulf, when they had first met, seemingly so long ago now, back in the university town of Wittenberg where they were both students. It was clear that this charismatic genius was going to 'make something of himself', or as Beowulf himself had immodestly put it, 'dominate the civilised world.' Beowulf was obviously a natural leader and Roscow had been only to willing to follow. It had seemed an especially good idea to go with him to King Lars' Land; where Beowulf had assured him that they would take over The Biggest Beer Hall Ever Built and with it the whole country. Their aspiration had been to live like Kings for ever. That had not worked out so well in practice. It was true that Beowulf had tricked The Troll, The King, The Queen and even Bjorn the Banker; all of whom he had managed to kill or have killed; and he had seized the hall. He had even managed to have himself legally crowned; but, and this was a large 'but', The Biggest Beer Hall Ever had been burned to the ground and entirely destroyed immediately after the coronation, (it actually caught fire during the ceremony) by a grief crazed and vengeful Mother Troll. She had continued to pursue Beowulf and Roscow afterwards, hell bent on revenge. They had been forced to flee the kingdom and come south. That was bad, but, that was not the only 'but'.

The late Queen had been one of the daughters of the nearly all-powerful Duke of Jutland; and although the Duke was not attached to his children in any kind of a personal or caring sense; being in fact wholly indifferent to all his offspring, apart from those he actively disliked; he was devotedly attached to the concept of property, especially his property – and, to him, _his_ children were _his_ property; they were _his_ chips on the gaming board of _his_ life. They were there to do _his_ bidding and contribute to _his_ plans, adding to _his_ glory. He was therefore greatly and predictably displeased that Beowulf had carelessly discarded one of _his_ pawns; and, although he was possibly also the father of Beowulf (this has never been properly established), he was rumoured to be murderously intent on violent retribution. The several attacks by assassins in the towns of northern Germany, where Beowulf and Roscow had first gone into hiding after the Beer Hall fiasco, had convinced Roscow that this was not merely a rumour. For corroboration; the hand written note (in the Duke's fine gothic hand) that they had pulled from the pocket of the crossbowman in the Cathedral at Grunewald (after they had dodged his bolt and rendered him unconscious) really put the matter beyond doubt. They were being hunted, not just by a massive, maddened, menopausal, matriarchal monster; but by an unknown quantity of unnamed, well armed, well paid, serious, professional killers. They had immediately and responsibly fled further south, towards their friends at the University of Wittenberg, where Beowulf and Roscow had lived and studied during their younger years.

It was difficult to imagine that things could have got worse there among the ivy clad towers of academia; but they had. Instead of the hospitable, scholastic welcome they had envisaged, they had been met at the gates by a dour and stern delegation from the University, who abjectly and adamantly, denied them access to the town. They also refused to give them any aid of either food or money. They had then kindly informed the careworn duo that they were doing all that they could to help by not immediately clapping them in irons and sticking them in a dungeon until the Duke's henchmen turned up to drag them away to some lingering, painful and probably well-deserved death. They were also pleased to explain that, not only were they being sought (in the most unpleasant of unpleasant ways) by the Duke; they were also persona non grata with His Holiness the Pope. His Spiritual Magnificence Pope Ludo the First had declared ('somewhat arbitrarily', as Beowulf later commented) that Beowulf was 'a very devil come to earth' and had, as a result of this conclusion issued an order to 'apprehend and immolate that accursed fiend Beowulf, and all those who lend aid or succour to his vile and reprobate purpose.'

This had come as something of a well-phrased surprise. Roscow and Beowulf could think of a number of things from the past that might have caused such an irate response from the Holy See (such as the faking and sale of Holy Relics, the impersonation of Saints, helping the heretics, rewriting certain parts of Holy Writ and mocking the Archbishop of Verona) but they had been fairly sure that these and other things had not been discovered: or at least if discovered, they had not been prioritised for retributive action (nobody, not even the Pope himself, cared about the Archbishop of Verona; everybody mocked him) . It was anxiety about which of their many possible misdeeds that the papacy had sunk its sacred teeth into that led Beowulf to try and question that Arch Chancellor of the Faculty of Philosophical Thought (of which Beowulf was a former student) further.

Arch Chancellor Mettelink could never have been described as a man of few words. Men do not become Arch Chancellors of the Faculty of Philosophical Thought at a prestigious and ancient academic institution, such as the University of Wittenberg if they are in any way encumbered by the burden of shyness. They are rarely, if ever, tongue tied and never 'lost for words.' They are immoderately and immodestly verbose and they possess circumspection to the same degree that bankers are infused with open handed generosity and black widow spiders possess matrimonial tenderness; so the Arch Chancellor's answer to Beowulf's simple enquiry, 'What does he think I've done?' was unusual both in its simplicity and in its dearth of information, but where it was most exceptional was in its brevity.

'Can't say,' said the Arch Chancellor.

Beowulf looked at him in stunned disbelief.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as the Arch Chancellor looked shiftily at the other faculty members who had gathered at the gates. They looked back at him with a pantomime of shared anguish to show solidarity with their beleaguered leader, while feeling a momentary thrill of gratification knowing that he, the man in charge, was now under the gun. They each took a small, yet certain, step away from the brewing conflict. Beowulf glared furiously at the Arch Chancellor, whose substantial figure wobbled. The faculty members shuffled an extra step backwards, just to be sure; and Arch Chancellor Mettelink suddenly felt himself very alone.

' _You_ can't say?'

The Arch Chancellor considered his options. He wished he had bought some of the University guards with him. Some of the meaner ones with the heavy plate armour, the plumed helmets and most importantly, the pikes.

'That is correct. I mean that you have correctly surmised my response-'

'You _can't_ say,' Beowulf continued, in a tome that was unhappily familiar to all the alumni of the Faculty of Philosophical Thought,

'You can't _say,_ because, perchance, you can't _speak_? But you can clearly speak, you are speaking now. We have spoken. Your speaking equipment seems to be anatomically correct and functioning. So it can't be that _you_ can't _say_ because you can't _speak_. It must be something else.'

Beowulf paused to allow the Arch Chancellor to contradict him if he dared. He didn't.

'Could it be that you "can't say" because you can't phrase your thoughts? Are you unable to express your ideas in words? That seems unlikely giving due respect to your profession and reputation.'

Beowulf stopped abruptly.

'Are you suffering from a mental impairment?' he demanded, jabbing his finger at the Arch Chancellor.

'No!' replied the flustered academic, 'of course not!'

'Blow to the head? Amnesia? Headaches? Plague? All these things can have that effect.'

'I am not mentally impaired!' Arch Chancellor Mettelink furiously denied this slurring of his mental acuity.

'Senility?' Beowulf queried gently, 'You are quite advanced in years.'

Despite the tension, some of the faculty had begun to giggle and this further inflamed the Arch Chancellor.

'I am not senile, nor am I mentally impaired!'

This escaped him in an undignified roar, which seemed to take Beowulf by surprise. Beowulf appeared to shrink and he mimed mortification. He took a regretful step back and continued the conversation in a conciliatory manner.

'Of course not, of course not! You are the Arch Chancellor of the faculty. No one could doubt your prodigious mental capacity. It is, after all, what you are famous for. I have often heard it said, even within this very faculty that you are _a man of the most prodigious mental capacity_.'

'Most prodigious, yes,' agreed Mettelink, mollified to a degree.

'So,' Beowulf resumed, 'your ability to speak is unimpaired and your great intellect is unclouded, neither disease nor madness prevent your communication. That is a relief.'

He smiled,

'That is a great comfort to us all, however, with this information, I must conclude that, having eliminated lack of capacity and impairment as possible causes, the reason that you cannot say why the Pope wants me dead is because you do not know. That is a shock! A man of your position reduced to passing on messages for the clergy, without the knowledge to inform them. I am grieved to hear it. A black cloud of ignorance befogs the once sunny and sublime summit of our Alma Mater! As this is surely and sadly the case, I shall trouble you no more. Come Roscow, we must go! The Chancellor must run his little errands for the Vatican.'

Beowulf turned to leave.

'But I do know!' The Arch Chancellor shouted in dismay, 'Of course I know! I'm the Arch Chancellor!'

Beowulf turned back. He smiled again, wolfishly.

'You do?'

At this point the Arch Chancellor saw how he had been trapped and that the only way to reassert his authority was through a show of strength.

'I do know, but I shall not share this information with you. I should have you arrested, but as you are a former member of this faculty (although a somewhat disgraced, discredited and dishevelled one) I have decided to let you continue on your way. I suggest that you do depart now, at once, before I give the matter further consideration and reach a different conclusion.'

'Thank you,' said Beowulf. 'It wasn't about the Bibles, then?'

Mettelink glared.

'Or the affair in Macedonia?'

Beowulf smiled, as the Chancellor remained furiously tight-lipped.

'Could it have been the destruction of the fortress at Rumensburg?'

The Arch Chancellor folded his arms in a show of severity to indicate that no information would be tricked from him (after all he was a man of prodigious mental capacity!), so Beowulf thanked him for the warning and set off down the road.

'That was pointless,' observed Roscow, 'all those things you mentioned were made up and he didn't tell us the real reason.'

Beowulf smiled,

'You have so much to learn and so little capacity to achieve that learning. Were you watching him closely as I suggested those false offences?'

'Yes.'

'Well, I was not. I was watching the other faculty members. Professor Norrick had a very satisfied look. He knows what was in the Papal order. I'm sure that I can get him to tell me.'

With that, Beowulf separated from Roscow and Gareth and started to scale the university wall. Roscow sat down and waited. It was dark by the time Beowulf returned.

'Is it bad?' asked Roscow.

'Yes,' Beowulf replied, 'the Pope is afraid we are going to interfere with Holy Gambling.'

'Is that bad?' asked Roscow.

'Yes,' Beowulf replied, 'as bad as it gets; and there is worse to come; an old friend needs our help'

'That does sound terrible,' agreed Roscow, 'I wouldn't want us stooping to that.'

It was then that Beowulf decided that they must cross the mountains.

After that, things had really gone downhill, or more precisely they had got worse while climbing _uphill._ They had been forced to sleep in a very damp forest, the night after Wittenberg and Roscow had caught a miserable cold. The night after that they had slept in a barn, but The Troll had caught up with them and they had again been forced to flee into the night. How she kept going was a mystery that Roscow found harder to penetrate each day that he struggled further south. Several times they had been forced to hide, when they had spotted groups of Papal soldiers on the roads. There was also the constant fear of the Duke's assassins.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not, considering his natural perverseness, Beowulf did not seem in the least downhearted.

'Adversity is the fire that forges greatness,' he told Roscow, with obvious enjoyment, 'Consider how uplifting this is! We are hunted by two of the most powerful men in the whole world and a malevolent, implacable monster who seeks to be our nemesis. If a man can not connect with his innate magnitude in such a unique situation then he truly does not deserve to be the Emperor of the World!'

Roscow did not feel that he was connecting with his innate magnitude. He was clearly not 'Emperor of the World' material; however, he was good at following and this was what he had continued to do. He followed Beowulf and Gareth, the powerfully hyperactive former Royal Dog, higher and higher, up into the mountains. It seemed, to Roscow, that soon they must come to the end of the world. To his disappointment, they did not: they merely continued to climb. Beowulf appeared to effortlessly bounce upon the snow covered mountain tracks, powered by whatever he believed to be his destiny. Gareth bounded off and bounded back, delighted by the endless procession of new sights, sounds and smells. Roscow suffered. His feet hurt, his back hurt. He wondered why he couldn't get his breath, until Beowulf explained about altitude sickness and then Roscow knew why he couldn't get his breath. That didn't help him. Still they went on. It was too much. Roscow came to what he thought of as a final halt, on the narrow ridge above the alpine valley.

'Things can't get any worse!' he said.

Then he heard the sound of the ice cracking.

Chapter Two

In which shadowy figures hold covert meetings for the usual reason: the discussion and commission of shadowy projects.

In a tall, thin, darkened room; at the top of a well guarded, twisty spiral staircase, in the Duke's Tower, that arose like a single skeletal finger, beckoning from the massive stone structure of Castle Jutland, a strong young man was waiting on a powerful old man, to learn what mission he had been employed to fulfil.

Naiman Nazri El-Nadir was not a fearful man by any standard. He was one of the most dreaded assassins in Northern Europe. He was a clean shaven, tall, dark man with an athlete's build. He was dressed practically, with a travelling robe covering a suit of tough, yet flexible leather armour. This item, although appearing worn, and, perhaps, a little shabby, concealed a number of lethal devices that he was highly proficient in the use of. He was at the height of his powers; muscular, stealthy, resolute and fearless; a dreaded killing machine, and yet, he felt a strange sensation of unease as he regarded the short, weak, pale old man who sat on the throne in front of him.

There was nothing remarkable in the man's appearance; beneath his plain, golden coronet he had a mane of dark, lank hair that spilled over the shoulders of his expensive gown. His short thin arms ended in pale hands with disproportionately long, white, bejewelled, fingers (one in every pie, it was said). The fingers tapped together incessantly, the only sign of restlessness in his small body. His pointy chin was masked by a short goatee of the same greasy black as his hair. Above his thin, unsmiling lips sat a beak of a nose and his face was rounded out by the most malevolent small black eyes that Naiman had ever seen. They regarded Naiman spitefully as he stood before the Duke of Jutland's throne and Naiman wondered if it had been a mistake to answer this summons.

'So, you claim to be the finished item? The best in your field? The pick of the pack?' The Duke sounded politely sceptical. There was a pause. Naiman correctly assumed the Duke was being rhetorical.

'I expect to be disappointed and, at least so far, you are a disappointment. You aren't even authentic are you? Naiman Nazri El-Nadir? It isn't even a proper Arabic name. I suspect that you are from southern Spain and your real name is Hector. You have never seen the Old Man of the Mountains, let alone been trained by him, have you? I would guess that were you not gutting men you would be gutting fish for a living. I wonder if you are even dangerous at all?'

The Duke looked sharply at the sleeve where Naiman kept his throwing knife.

'Don't begin to think it,' said the Duke, who laughed at Naiman's angry expression. Naiman wondered how the Duke was so well informed,

'You would be dead before your thought was finished and the time, money and effort I have expended in bringing you here would have been wasted. Do you think I have time to waste, at my age?'

The Duke waited politely, as if inviting an answer, but as none came, he continued.

'Of course not, and, however inauthentic you may be, your record, unless exaggerated is at least adequate. You can kill people and you can do what you are told, I suppose?'

This time the Duke's eyes demanded an answer.

'I can do both these things, your Grace. I am trained in all the arts of the assassin and spy, and when committed; I achieve my goal.'

'A very fine answer,' said the Duke, although his tone suggested otherwise, 'all men who serve say thus; however, I need a lion, not a liar. Are you as deadly as the plague? As swift as Mercury, yet as silent as Death itself? Can you walk through the fire and fear no pain? Can you walk through the water and leave no footprint? Are you the elite assassin I seek or are you simply a murdering bungler looking to line his pockets at my expense?'

The Duke held his breath, feeling pleased with his string of dismissive insults.

'I like to think-'

'A lot of us _like_ to think,' the Duke interrupted, 'but it is the reality not the thought that I am seeking. I will ask you only one more time and this time your answer _must_ be convincing, as I take disappointments badly; can you do whatever I need?'

Naiman felt his life in the balance. He thought carefully. He took a deep breath and answered in a confident, measured voice.

'I can, your Grace. Explain what you need.'

The Duke smiled momentarily. It was not a pleasant smile.

'That will do. You will need to accept a mission, yet not complete that assignment until you have commissioned an alternative course of action that is contrary to the spirit of the agreement that prompted your initial undertaking; only when this secondary charge is dispatched are you free to fulfil your primary contract and then, that is what you must do. Do you grasp this?'

Again, as his mind raced, trying to make sense of this gibberish, Naiman felt the malignant eyes of the Duke upon him.

'In essence, your Grace, I do; however I would need to be appraised of the details. I have always found the details to be of the highest importance. Accuracy is essential.'

A strange mixture of emotions crossed the Duke's face. Naiman, who was a skilled interpreter realised that although the Duke was pleased that he had found someone who could understand and attend to his mission, he was also angry that he had not been able to overawe, confuse or bully him. When the mission was completed, he knew he would have to be very, very careful.

'I would be grateful,' he said, 'to learn the detail of how I might serve your Grace.'

The Duke explained. It took him some time.

Naiman was still in attendance an hour later when the Duke's announced visitor arrived. Cardinal Nathaniel Bull strode complacently into the Duke's Hall and only momentarily paused to allow the Duke to acknowledge him with a nod before seating his great bulk on the visitor's chair. He stared arrogantly up at the Duke.

Pope Ludo's right hand was a giant, blacksmith of a man. His great, round shoulders were further inflated by his scarlet robes and the huge, red hands that peeped from the sleeves confirmed the scale of his ham-like arms. He had a wide, crimson face with bright blue eyes that seemed out of place in the mass of red that was formed by his costume and complexion. Some people referred to him as 'the Red Ogre' but never to his face.

'So?' he enquired rudely, causing the Duke an invisible shudder of displeasure. The Duke hated the Pope and the Pope's man with equal vigour and distaste. He would happily have them both tortured and killed, but, he reminded himself, that would simply not do. Not yet.

'So,' he replied calmly, 'you come seeking the answer to two questions; two issues upon which we shall reach an accord.'

Knowing that the Cardinal was a notoriously impatient man the Duke decided that to come to the point as obliquely as possible would be the most satisfactory manner for the conversation to proceed.

'The first is an international issue of state, revenue and order that has been under regular discussion between ourselves for a number of years. In this matter, I have, up to a point, indulged your employer in return for a certain degree of courtesy or-'

'A percentage.' Bull concluded brusquely, 'A percentage; that is what you have. A certain percentage of the Sacred Revenues from the Holy Monasteries of Southern France in return for-'

'-My recognition of your fake claimant to the throne.' Bull's interruption had thwarted the Duke's desire to spin things out. He therefore felt obliged to be offensive.

'King Louis is the rightful King of France,' Bull sat straighter and sneered at the Duke, 'His coronation was overseen by His Holiness Himself and he is clearly the son of the late King Jacques, whom all recognised as the true and legal monarch of France.'

'That is evident,' agreed the Duke, 'But we both know that he is not the first born son of King Jacques, or, in fact, King Louis at all.'

They fell silent and Bull nodded suspiciously at Naiman.'

'He is for the other business,' explained the Duke, 'his discretion is assured and already purchased. Shall we proceed?'

Bull nodded stiffly and the Duke continued.

'The late King Jacques, God rest his Royal Soul, had a long and childless marriage to a cold and inauspicious Countess from Gratz. I recall that I advised against the match, however, King Jacques and God's Representative on Earth believed that they knew better than I, and the foolishness went ahead. This dearth of regal offspring caused some anxiety to your wise and exalted employer, particularly as the King of France controls the profits from the fine and Holy Monasteries that line the Mediterranean Coast. His Holiness has always been a gracious and appreciative beneficiary of their benevolence, or as you so vulgarly put it; 'he took a percentage.' In response therefore, to this inconvenient issue of the lack of issue, that prevented proper succession planning, the following occurred; on the propitious, yet sad, expiry of the aforementioned Countess (now a Queen), due to a sudden illness that tragically afflicted her after a fine, _yet entirely ordinary_ Papal dinner; the bereaved Monarch was quickly acquainted with the fair and fecund Lady Salicia of Salerno.'

'I am sure that it was only regal duty that made the late King Jacques cut through the red tape (and black millinery) of mourning in order to wed the lovely Salicia very shortly after the unhappy event of his first wife's sad demise. That being said; a wedding took place and the air was thick with expectation of an heir. At the traditional time, following conception (which occurred almost immaculately!) there was another happy event and the Crown Prince Louis was born. Happy events did not end there! Hot on the heels of the new Dauphin, a second babe was delivered, an identical, but not first born Prince, who was to be known as Louie-Louie, or, in French; Louis Deux. This is where the happy events run out, as the lovely Salicia, having put life into the failing French monarchy, ran out of it herself and succumbed to one of those tiresome diseases that should really only affect the lower orders.'

'The tragedy of the lovely Salicia's passing was sufficient to rob the late King Jacques of the small faculty of reason that he had somehow preserved through the arid desert of his long and arduous first marriage and the ardent dessert of his shorter second. He continued to reign, as insane monarchs tend to do, without even the slightest fluctuation in the effectiveness of Royal governance; however his sons; Louis and Louie-Louie fell under the influences of the powerful men at court.'

'Louis; as befits the beneficiary of primogeniture came under the authority of King Jacques' greatest military leader; Marshall Gney. He raised Louis in line with his own beliefs; which predictably included, respect for one's elders, respect for hierarchy and order, great reverence for military power; due, yet not excessive, regard for the church, and lastly, much to the displeasure of your employer, a strong regard for nationalism and the desire to make France the great nation and international power that the Marshall believes it should become.'

The Duke looked up at this point and smiled pleasantly at Cardinal Bull, drawing the thin and leathery skin of his lips painfully across his canine teeth. He continued,

'I have it on the best authority that, at this time, the imprudent Marshall Gney suffered a number of assassination attempts from attackers who could, perhaps, have been described as "clerically motivated?" I am always impressed by the devotion some young people bring to their religious principles! This careless, obvious and ineffectual attempt to influence the future of France predictably produced the opposite effect from the one which was intended. Marshall Gney became, within the confines of ultra-right wing, upper class thought, almost anti-clerical. It was after one of these curiously fruitless attempts that 'Le Grand Marshall' put a bill before the Royal Parliament suggesting that the revenues produced by Holy Gambling in the South Coast Monasteries, instead of coming to the King somewhat sequestered by the Pontiff's predatory percentage, should in future arrive free and clear, in order to greater build the glory of France. I believe the intention was to do this armed might and military conquest. However-'

Bull interrupted,

'However, the bill still sits before the Royal Parliament and has not moved since the late King Jacques was unable to reach any decisive conclusion before his recent and untimely death.'

The Duke eyed his adversary carefully.

'It wasn't you who killed him?'

Bull shrugged as if to indicate that if he had, it would not have been a matter of great account, before replying,

'Old age. Insanity. The usual. He is at peace.'

The Duke continued to stare at Bull, who flushed a slightly deeper red,

'If I had, I would say, but we prefer to avoid regicide where alternatives exist. If it had proved unavoidable we would not have shirked our duty. We both accept the necessity of what needs to be done being done.'

'For the good of the State.'

'And the good of the Church.'

They both smiled cagily. The Duke continued,

'The Louis raised by Marshall Gney would clearly favour the adoption of this bill, much to his Holiness' displeasure.'

'But an alternative exists and a plan is in place,' said Bull, 'the younger son, Louie-Louie, was raised by the spiritual and virtuous Cardinal Mascarpone-'

Bull was interrupted by the Duke's snort of laughter. Bull persevered,

'As I was saying; Louis Deux was raised by the _respectable_ Cardinal to have a full and fair appreciation of the Church and the necessity for the state of France to, as it were, fall prostrate at the Holy Throne of God-'

'And continue to make the payments.'

Anger was apparent on Bull's face.

'And continue to make the payments that are right and proper in a well ordered and spiritually sound Europe! Louie-Louie understood how the temporal state must pay due regard to the eternal and virtuous throne of the Pope, and soundly supported the withdrawal of the bill.'

'And so you had the older brother murdered and replaced with his twin, just after the recent coronation. Now you are here to persuade me that our agreement should remain. This business hardly requires a man of your stature, Bull. Of course I agree. What is different?'

Bull drew in a sharp breath. He was shocked. He had never considered that the Duke did not know, down to the last detail, what they had done. Quickly he tried to weigh up his options; if the Duke did _not_ know then there was no need to explain; however if he found out...

The thought of the Duke _finding out_ decided things for Bull. He would need to tell the whole story.

The Duke, who already knew the whole story, was extremely gratified by the effect of his pretence. Bull would tell him all anyway, but he would go away thinking that he was just a little smarter. That thought almost made the Duke laugh out loud. Cardinal Bull smarter than the Duke of Jutland? Perhaps on the day when Hell froze over, Fish began to fly, or the seas turned red! He watched delightedly as the Cardinal thought ferociously about how he was going to tell his story in such a way that it did not seem as positively criminal as it obviously was.

'I'm waiting.'

The Cardinal released a sharp breath with a perceptible sigh. He concentrated and then briskly slapping his thighs, he continued in what the Duke thought of as his 'pulpit voice.'

'The ways of men are Wicked and Ungodly!' Having realised what he had done, the Cardinal almost ground to a halt, but then he decided to press on.

'And the only succour for the Righteous is to be found in the Bosom of the Holy Church. The vine either groweth or withereth; this has been known since ancient time. When the Ungodly threaten the Temple of Solomon, then the Wise must act to see that the Lamb is not laid upon the Wrong Altar. It is a duty given to the Godly that they should inhibit the Sinner on the Error Strewn Road to his own Damnation and, where he would headlong hurl himself into the Abyss, the Good Servant must place obstacles in his way, lest he should fall into the Fire and be consumed.'

The Duke yawned, rudely, 'A poor mixture of pedantry and devotion; please come to the point.'

'Of course, of course, I was speaking of France, the nation. It is a young nation, a new nation and it is at risk, extreme risk, of falling from the Path of Righteousness into the furnace of dissolution and immorality. The new King, Louis, would cut off the Papal Revenues and instead seek to gain military dominion over Europe! He would turn away the Hand of Faith and repudiate his filial duty to the Pope. He would deny us our rights and monies. We could not sit idly by as this young and foolish man failed in his duty and bought his kingdom under the dominion of the Lord of Darkness. We were forced to act!'

The Duke appeared sceptical,

'I have never quite seen Marshall Gney as the Prince of Darkness, however we were speaking of a great deal of money, and the young King seems to have scant regard for its _rightful_ ownership. Please, carry on.'

'As you wish. In the face of such an insubordinate challenge to the legitimate rights of the Office of the Papacy, we were obliged to consult with our southern friends about a suitable scheme to ensure the succession of the tariff.'

The Cardinal's face darkened at the mention of 'our southern friends' and the Duke was delighted that the Cardinal was clearly uncomfortable in discussing them.

'The Templar's of the Cursed Rock!' he exclaimed happily, 'a fine choice, there is no better-'

'Band of thieving, scheming, unholy, godless brigands upon the face of the Earth!' Bull thundered out his interruption, and his face became an even more livid scarlet than it had been before.

'I see they charged their usual rate,' said the Duke, 'But I assume the scheme was effective?'

They both waited while the Cardinal's rage subsided. Naiman wondered if they would ever come to the point where he was needed. The Cardinal steadily clenched and unclenched his huge fists.

'Yes, to both counts,' he continued more calmly, 'they charged an enormous sum, but what they did was effective.'

'You remember, of course, that Louis has an identical brother Louie-Louie (also known as Louie Deux) who, having been raised by the impeccably virtuous Cardinal Mascarpone is favourably disposed to the Church? A lad much better suited for high office than the greedy, stubborn warmongering brother. It was arranged that, shortly after the coronation, while the bellicose Prince was engaged in one of his infernal 'military exercises' that he should be taken by our templar friends and replaced with the good and reliable Louis Deux, who is now recognised as the legitimate King. He can now be in a position to happily dismiss the whole foolish issue of the bill at the next meeting of the Royal Parliament.'

See,' interrupted the Duke, 'it is as I said. You have killed the first and replaced him with the second. Congratulations! I approve. Again I cannot see why we need to have this conference, let us press on to the second matter!'

'But that is not the case,' disagreed the Cardinal, 'and because of what has actually been done, and what may now happen; the first matter now connects with the second.'

Although the Duke was delighted by this news, a lifetime of training (and a naturally unpleasing countenance) meant that he looked both shocked and angry.

'You had better continue.'

The Cardinal did as he was told.

'The Templars did not kill the boy because; as have I said; we avoid regicide wherever possible. It brings the Church into disrepute. Go around slaughtering the Monarchs of the Earth and soon the commons will find the Clergy fair game. We have no wish to raise those expectations! Also; the Louis' are young, one might die, and so we might need the other to replace him. It is better to have two Kings in the bank than none at all. It is also useful for the saintly Cardinal Mascarpone to be able to threaten to replace the boy, if he should try to stray too far from the Holy Path; independence in created Kings is hardly a virtue. We ordered Louis to be kept alive and imprisoned in an iron mask beneath the monastery of Monte San Carlos. Our puppet is in place, we have secured his obedience and arranged a form of insurance should anything go wrong.'

The Duke pretended to think deeply about this new stratagem. He then quietly applauded.

'A fine scheme, a fine scheme; But what I don't yet understand is how this relates to the second matter, which is, as you are well aware, arranging the timely death of the pestilential Beowulf. How are these things connected?'

'Would that the only motives for destroying the fell Beowulf were how despicable he is! He has murdered your daughter, destroyed the Greatest Beer Hall Ever Built, removed your vassal, King Lars and has probably done much more besides; but it is not his past deeds that concern us – it is what he may do next. We have men searching from the Rhine to the Tiber, but we are unable to locate him as yet. We understand you have had him pursued out of Germany, but he has not been caught.'

'My motive,' intoned the Duke, 'is merely his destruction and I have now acquired the instrument of his extinction.' He gestured to Naiman, who bowed discreetly.

'However you seem to have an agenda of some urgency. What threat does Beowulf pose to the Papacy? I'm aware of his atheistic views and general contempt for civilised religion and his attachment to what he calls 'nihilistic philosophy' but I fail to see what danger, he alone, can pose to the might of Rome.'

'Are you aware that he was once in the mercenary army of Marshall Gney?' asked the Cardinal, 'They fought together at the battle of Linz. Beowulf orchestrated a trap where the commanders of the Batavian Army were murdered and so Gney was able to defeat a far greater force.'

'Of course I was aware of this! But did they not quarrel afterwards? I believe that he called the Marshall "a whey-faced, flatulent, posturing fool who could no more command an army than he could expound the ideas of Plato." They parted on bad terms, Beowulf was angry that the Marshall took the credit for the victory.'

'A ruse,' claimed the Cardinal, who then readied himself for a barrage of the Duke's anger. The Duke, however, grew more composed. He accepted the possibility. He knew how clever Beowulf could be; almost as clever as his probable (yet unproven) father.

'How do you know this?'

'One of the Templars was foolish enough to be caught by the Marshall's men. He did not divulge the plan, but the Marshall is well aware that the Louis he has is not the Louis he wants. He cannot do anything about this as both Louis', having not yet made the mistake of ruling long, are popular with both the commons and the nobility; besides, he has no proof. He sent a number of messengers to summon Beowulf to help him. We intercepted some, but I imagine that others may have succeeded. We anticipate that Beowulf will try to join the Marshall at the Monastery of Monte San Carlos and there they will try to expose our King Louis in order to gain the revenues from the monasteries for the Marshall's army of conquest. We believe that he will try to gain ascendancy in Europe and this can only come at the expense of the two great powers-'

'Jutland and the Papacy. We must make short work of Beowulf. This is my man.'

He gestured to Naiman, who stepped forward.

'He is not one of the mystical assassins from the East; however he is the best that the civilised world can offer. He will track down and destroy Beowulf. Your information as to his destination is particularly helpful.'

The Cardinal looked doubtful, 'He is but one man. How can we be sure he will succeed?'

'Do you remember the improbable murder of Duke Lorenzo de Tibili?'

'Who was killed in a locked room, inside his own special tower that was surrounded day and night by a hundred guards? There were no marks on his body, no sign of the assassin's entry and the only way that his men were sure he had been murdered was that an embroidered glove was left at the scene.'

'That Lorenzo Tibili,' confirmed the Duke.

Naiman smiled and handed the Cardinal a white embroidered glove. The Cardinal noticed a small character on the glove. He looked at Naiman who ferociously bared his teeth as he returned his stare.

'Oh,' said the Cardinal.

Chapter 3

In which, after managing to both arrive at their meeting, Marshall Gney and Cardinal Mascarpone fail to get on in a manner becoming of such Grandees. They are unable to agree on any point apart from a shared contempt for the Ambassador of the Britons; this enables them, for a short time to set aside their differences and unite in a righteous contempt for all the swamp dwelling heathen who reside upon that barren isle. The rather pompous and stuffy tone of these dignitaries is lightened by the appearance of the Duke's niece, who is clearly not at all happy with their plans; or with the way these plans are conveyed to her.

Norbert, the senior clerk to Cardinal Mascarpone, was loath to disturb his master in the morning. Truthfully, he was loath to disturb his master in the afternoon, evening or night; but morning was the worst time of all. If the Cardinal had been drinking his hangovers varied from active expressions of nausea (which Norbert was then expected to clear up) to angry, head pounding rages (which would be vented on Norbert.) If the Cardinal had not been drinking, then he would certainly be with women, unless he had started drinking. Norbert was unsure which of these he preferred least or dreaded most. If the Cardinal was still drinking, then anything was possible. Once he had told Norbert that he loved him and that this love must be requited there and then. Another time he had set fire to the library. In the first instance Norbert had run and hidden in the storehouse where he had spent a long and dark night of the soul wondering if he should abandon holy orders and become a goat farmer like his father. His profound dislike of goats, farms and other men had finally won him back to the light but not before he had grimly contemplated a foul smelling, uncomfortable and goat-filled future. His store of bitterness and fear had grown that night. In the event of the fire, he had summoned the monks who had managed to control the blaze, but not before there had been a considerable loss of scripture. The monastery of Monte San Carlos was now short an Apocrypha. Norbert regularly felt that it might be better if it were short a Cardinal

On balance, Norbert concluded that the Cardinal's women were probably the worst. He had no knowledge of women, nor had he the desire to gain such. He fell short of condemning them as 'Satan's Snares' as Brother Bunion liked to describe them, however he became so embarrassed in their presence that he would shake like a leaf and on certain shameful occasions, particularly when they were in states of undress, he had, to his intense mortification, fainted. The joy and happiness this loss of control caused the Cardinal; and his pleasure in reminiscing about it whenever a third party was present was another cross that poor Norbert had to bear. Norbert had become a priest in order to hide from the world and each day he was horrified to find that it had followed him into the cloister.

This morning he offered a hopeful prayer for a cheerful pile of vomit to remove. At least when sick, the Cardinal was unable to shout and rant at the volumes he managed at other times. Norbert knew that shouting was going to be on the order of service for the day, as the reason that he had to wake the Cardinal (if he could be mercifully sleeping and not carousing in a blissful drunken melee, with or without females of dubious respectability) was that the Grand Marshall Gney was expected to visit, to arrange matters for the Royal wedding..

The Cardinal hated the Marshall with a vitriol he usually reserved for sobriety, abstinence and attending Mass. The mere mention of his name would cause the Cardinal to shout and curse. The thought of his presence caused him to smash smaller household items and to look for the means of damaging or destroying larger ones. To be present at one of their meetings was, in Norbert's humble opinion, to be situated, like Herculaneum, on the slopes of a boiling Vesuvius. Somehow, so far, Norbert had survived the reign of fiery death, but it seemed plain to him, that it was only a matter of time.

He knocked, timorously, on his master's door. From within he heard a low groaning, which he interpreted to be a good sign and permission to enter. Despite his considerable years of training and experience, his unwilling eyes were, at first, unable to process the carnage that awaited him beyond the Cardinal's door.

The Cardinal's bed chamber, in what could loosely be described as 'normal times' was a large, square, stone room, dominated by a huge crimson-curtained, gold painted, four poster bed. On the walls hung opulent tapestries, depicting biblical scenes and portraits of religious pageantry. On the floors were thick, expensive, frequently cleaned rugs from the East. Two south facing, curtained windows allowed (when the Cardinal permitted) the bright light of the Mediterranean sun to light and warm the room. When the curtains were closed, the room was lit from the silver, gem inlaid candlesticks that sat on the Cardinal's work desk. Nothing of that stately, priestly palace now remained intact.

That the bed had collapsed, could have been the first thing to attract Norbert's appalled gaze; the posts lay splintered on the floor with the curtains draped around what was the left of the body of the bed. It could have been the state of the floor; the rugs were shredded, mangled and defiled and if Norbert had been given the leisure to observe he would have seen that they had also been chewed; as if by a large beast. The tapestries had been ripped from the wall and they lay tattered and confused with what was left of the rugs, the bed curtains and the inevitable wine skins. The room smelt hideously of a mixture of old incense, alcohol and what seemed to Norbert to be some kind of animal smell; but all this he was unable to fully accept. The central thing that drew his eye, to the exclusion of all else, was what remained of the bed.

The carcass of the bed sat unevenly on the despoiled floor and the Cardinal's groaning head could be seen at one end, emerging from his scarlet sheets; but, Norbert wondered, what had become of his body? Concealed by the covers, below the Cardinal's darkly bearded chin was a colossal, lumpy, improbable body. It seemed three times the size of a normal man. Norbert noticed with growing horror that it seemed to move irregularly. It was as if the Cardinal had grown huge, uncontrolled limbs that thrashed haphazardly beneath the sheets. These movements seemed not to be directed by the Cardinal, whose groaning became more intense with each random and frightening movement.

'Help me!' croaked the Cardinal, as Norbert watched a wave of bloated movement flow across the sheets. Norbert took a step back. It seemed to him that the Devil had finally caught up with Cardinal Mascarpone and was transforming him into some kind of bestial fiend. This impression intensified as Norbert began to apprehend the terrible stench that now emanated from the centre of the room.

'Help me!' the Cardinal moaned again as another of his apparently massive limbs shook the sheets. It was then that Norbert heard the grunting. The Cardinal's body was making strange grunting noises and it seemed that it was somehow tearing itself apart. Norbert prepared to flee the site of demonic possession, but before he could run, he felt his mouth fall open ready to scream and at this moment he heard a voice.

'Eet ees onlee thee peegs!' said the voice, laconically.

Norbert looked into the corner of the room where he noticed a small, bearded, weather-beaten man wearing a white shirt and one of the Cardinal's best hats, casually sitting cross legged on the floor. The stranger was almost fully concealed by a large wineskin from which he was drinking. Norbert had just begun to take in the strange man when he was disturbed by an increase in grunting from the bed. The covers were now thrashing, like a stormy sea and the Cardinal's groaning rose in pitch and volume.

'Help me!' he shrieked. At that moment it seemed, to Norbert, that the bed exploded and the Cardinal's monstrous limbs turned out to be three huge pigs, one of which was wearing the Cardinal's stole. The pigs burst from the covers and ran, snorting happily, past Norbert, out of the door and into the cloister. This left the Cardinal lying, curled up and snivelling on the bed. He was wearing a much dishevelled nightdress. Before Norbert could approach the Cardinal the small man jumped to his feet and began to follow the pigs.

'Eet ees like I am saying,' he whispered conspiratorially, 'eet ees thee peegs.'

Seeing that Norbert seemed to require some explanation of this, the man smiled.

'I am Pedro. I am a farmer. Thee Cardinal 'ee say to me that 'ee wants to be thee beeg, bad wolf!'

He passed Norbert and started down the hallway. Then he paused.

'Well, we all 'ave to make thee leeveeng,' he said, and Norbert realised that there would be quite a lot of clearing up to do today.

'Tardiness is sign of an undisciplined mind,' lectured Grand Marshall Gney. His gnarled features were twisted into an expression that he imagined conveyed virtuous concern mixed with the desire to instruct.

The dark haired, brown-eyed young woman who was the subject of this observation grinned and replied,

'Dogma is a sure sign of a frightened mind, Uncle. Occasionally allowances for variance must be made in order to maintain a powerful and flexible response to challenges.'

Marshall Gney was reputed to be 'A Holy Terror' on the battlefield, but he was rarely a match for his combative niece. They were walking together along the path to the Monastery of Monte San Carlos; he strode, tall and grey, with his long grey hair flowing out from under his General's hat onto the shoulders of his grey uniform cloak. She bounced along beside him, skipping her steps to keep pace with his longer stride. She was wearing a blue and white patterned dress along with a mischievous smile. Her long, dark and controversially hatless, hair rippled in the gentle wind and prompted the Marshall to reengage.

'You should wear a hat, for decency's sake!'

Amarilla, for that was her name, took a few steps along the winding path that led along the cliffs to the monastery while she pretended to consider the General's suggestion.

'Who is this 'Decency?'' she inquired, 'Do we know her? She sounds like a terrible bore.'

The Marshall sighed. Girls! What was to be done with them? He had stormed battlements, faced cavalry charges and fought his way across half of Europe and in all that time he had never felt out of his depth. He enjoyed the manly camaraderie of battle and the dull, tedious marching in between. He felt at home with the ponderous ribaldry of his troops. He enjoyed their predictable complaints, their feeble and humdrum excuses. He understood their infrequent bravery and far more frequent cowardice. He had never married. He was, he reflected, 'a man's man.' Men, he understood; girls, on the other hand...were a different species altogether.

'Soon she will be married,' he thought; and although there was some comfort in the thought that he could then sensibly get on with his life, he acknowledged that there was also a flicker of disappointment that soon he would no longer be able to war with his feisty niece on the battlefields of convention. There was, however, the problem of the bridegroom.

Amarilla was supposedly engaged to Louis, the recently crowned King of France; a fine male military paragon who had, at least in part, been raised by the Marshall himself. The Marshall was, in a dry way, fond of him, as he very much reminded him of himself at a younger age (dull, arrogant and vain). What Amarilla thought of him, he did not know. He had not enquired. In point of fact, he had kept the engagement a secret from her. This was based on the fine principle that important things could be distressing to women and it was therefore kinder, and simpler, to make the arrangements with other men and inform the girl at the relevant time.

This caused him to pause, uncomfortably. The relevant time had already passed. The wedding was due to occur in five days time. On that very day, there would be the critical meeting of Parliament regarding the Holy Gambling monies. The Marshall had planned to tell her about the wedding earlier, although each time he tried, he found a reason to delay. There had been no real reason, at first, not to tell her, and the Marshall had been puzzled by his own uncharacteristic procrastination. He had firmly decided to tell her on the evening of the day of the Military Exercise. But on that day everything had changed. After that day, there was a real reason to delay.

On that brilliant summer morning three weeks ago, all had appeared to be exactly as Heaven, and the Marshall, would have wished it. The Sun shone brightly, the birds sang encouragingly, the white bricks of the Chateau had glistened appreciatively and Louis had gone out to command the troops, as was usual. He was riding his favourite horse, a fine white stallion, called Frances the First; and he was accompanied by Nestor, his groom and a lieutenant of the cavalry, called Eugene D'Orbergene. They were protected by an escort of four guards. The Marshall had saluted them as they rode out to the Petit Bois Fichou. They had returned his regal greeting cheerfully before disappearing onto the forest path from which they did not return at the scheduled hour.

The Marshall, as a military man, was not overly worried by the dalliance of young men, out on manoeuvres on a fine sunny day; far from any enemy, safe within the borders of France. He had chuckled to himself and recalled the many fine days when he had been abroad with his fellows, riding around the countryside, enjoying the heat and terrorising the local peasantry. He had some dinner and decided to wait. He was not much more alarmed when D'Orbergene had returned, an hour or two later, saying that the party had been delayed as Nestor had suffered a riding accident and King Louis was seeing him to safety. In retrospect he should have noticed that D'Orbergene had seemed more ill at ease than a nobleman bringing news of the injury to a servant should have been. He should also have considered that Nestor was the least likely of men to have a riding accident; and that King Louis was by far the least likely man of all to tend to his stricken servant in this improbable eventuality; but this he had failed to do.

When the King returned he had announced that Nestor was dead. His fall had been fatal. It also appeared that the King had dispensed with his escort. More worrying to Marshall Gney was the feeling that the King was...well...not quite who he had been when he had left the Chateau in the morning. He had the same short build, monotonous voice and dark curly hair, but although he had greeted the old Marshall cordially enough, he had seemed _too cheerful_ and he had eaten too little at dinner and not drunk quite enough port. He looked like the King, sounded like the King; he even acted somewhat like the King; but the Marshall had begun to suspect that whatever he looked and sounded like, the King was not the King. He was an imposter! The Marshall also knew that if he was an imposter there was only one person that he could possibly be and this was his hateful twin, the toady of the church and protégé of Cardinal Mascarpone: Louie-Louie!

The Marshall had immediately commissioned his spies to investigate. They had been able to find no trace of the escort that had set out with the King, and no place where Nestor had met with his unlikely accident. He had tried to find Louie-Louie on the basis that if Louie-Louie could be found, then the man who appeared to be Louis _must_ , by virtue of not being Louie-Louie, be who he appeared to be; Louis himself.

The Marshall was to be disappointed. Sadly, Louie-Louie could not be found. The scheming Cardinal reported that he had gone to a remote retreat, for spiritual reasons, from which he could not be disturbed. It was then that the Marshall knew for sure that he was in a bind. He could not declare against the false King, as even he could not be entirely sure that this false Louis was a fake, so similar were the twins in appearance and speech. Even if he were sure, it would be a task to convince the Parliament of this substitution and even if he were able to prove that Louie-Louie was not Louis himself beyond all possible doubt; Louie-Louie would still have a claim on the French Throne unless the Marshall could produce the true Monarch alive and well. His one stroke of luck was that a member of the sinister group known as 'the Templars of the Cursed Rock' had been caught trying to leave France shortly afterwards. While he had not admitted much, under the hideous and gruesome tortures the Marshall's men had used; he had given enough of a hint that the Marshall suspected that the King might be alive and held hostage somewhere. Unfortunately, at that point the reckless brigand had clumsily expired and they had not gained any more information.

The Marshall was faced with a great task: the wrong King must not remain on the throne, the money from Holy Gambling must go to the Army and his niece must not marry the wrong brother. The Marshall did not know if he could achieve this, but he knew who he would like to be on his side. He had sent a number of messengers to summon the cunning and resourceful Beowulf. He hoped that some had survived and found their man.

In the meantime he and Amarilla had to meet the ridiculous Cardinal and discuss the wedding that he knew he should have mentioned some time ago.

Norbert had made some progress in readying his unsteady cleric for the important meeting. He had somehow managed to clean up and re-dress the protesting (and somewhat smelly) Cardinal, and he had dragged him as far as the Chapter House where he had, with considerable grunting and grappling, managed to wedge him crookedly onto a throne. He had then turned his attention to wrestling the Cardinal's wild and unkempt mane into some modicum of ecclesiastical order. This he had more or less achieved by pulling it hard and stuffing it beneath Mascarpone's oversize hat. Throughout this process the Cardinal moaned inarticulately and Norbert feared that the meeting would have to be delayed.

When he expressed this fear, the Cardinal surprisingly, began to pull himself together and Norbert was impressed by his master's ability to grasp political reality despite his post alcoholic confusion. He was less impressed (but not entirely surprised) when the Cardinal struck him with a forcible thump to the side of the head, while he shouted expletives at the Chapter House roof. These were clearly directed at the Marshall and so Norbert did not take them personally, although he was now careful to stay at arm's length.

'Quite right your Spiritual Holiness,' he intoned in the 'special' voice he used when he tried to calm then Cardinal. It did not calm the Cardinal. Mascarpone hated the 'special' voice.

'I hate him!' he bellowed and in a surge of energy he shook his fist at the doorway, before sliding back onto the throne.

'Of course, of course,' agreed Norbert, wondering if he should help seat the Cardinal more securely. The Cardinal stared at Norbert. He made a concerted effort to concentrate and hissed,

'I mean it. I really hate him! I wish that he would die!'

Norbert had no strategy for this and so ventured,

'Shall I see if he is without, my Lord?'

'Without what?' continued the Cardinal whose venomous mental powers appeared to be returning, 'Without honour? Without scruple? Without religion? WITHOUT DECENCY?'

His last bellow shook the Chapter House and Norbert feared that he might have a seizure.

'I meant outside,' he explained, simply.

'I KNOW YOU MEANT OUTSIDE,' the Cardinal roared, 'NOW GO OUTSIDE AND BRING THE VILE LOUSE IN!'

It was at this unfortunate moment that the Cardinal's Herald delivered the Marshall and Amarilla into the Chapter House.

'Grand Marshall Gney, of the Glorious French Army, venerated leader of the Royal Guard and Mademoiselle De Cassiones,' he proclaimed sonorously, with a sweeping flourish, 'here to visit His Most Exalted Eminence, the revered and reverend Cardinal Mascarpone.'

There was a long uncomfortable pause, while the Cardinal endeavoured to pretend that he had not just shouted the very words that he _had_ just shouted; and the others laboured to pretend that they had not heard exactly what it was that he had bellowed, while being awkwardly aware that they had heard every word. Surprisingly, considering his condition, the Cardinal was the quickest to recover.

'Greetings to you, my dear Marshall, and to you, Mademoiselle De Cassiones. Welcome. May the Lord bless you and keep you.'

He tried to rise in greeting, but found his legs unwilling. He decided that he would be safer seated. This left the Marshall and Amarilla in a sort of no-mans land. They had moved forward to receive the Cardinal's greeting and now had to shuffle backwards as the Cardinal remained seated. Norbert looked anxiously on. The Herald hovered nervously.

'Your Eminence,' the Marshall greeted Mascarpone with the minimum courtesy he could possibly bring to greeting a General of the church. Amarilla curtseyed, rather prettily and much to the surprise of the Marshall, remained silent. She smiled at Mascarpone, while wondering why her Uncle had brought her to meet such a dissolute looking old cleric. It was suspicious. She knew that the Marshall did not like the Cardinal. She hoped that he was not planning to send her to a nunnery. She often feared this; particularly when she had made him angry (a habit that she intermittently tried to shelve; but one that, apparently, she could not break); however she had determined that if this ever happened she would run away. She really hoped that was not what this meeting was about.

Both men eyed each other cagily; Mascarpone was worried that Gney might have grounds to challenge the fake King, and Gney was horribly aware that the wedding plans were about to be revealed and he had no idea how Amarilla would react. There was an interminably long silence while both waited for the other to speak first. Norbert feared that the Cardinal had forgotten the precise purpose of the meeting and was thinking about how he could prompt his master without appearing disrespectful. The tension grew. The Herald shuffled his feet anxiously and looked back to the doorway.

'I think the British Ambassador is without,' he sighed, with palpable relief.

'Without what?' snarled Mascarpone.

'Without charm, breeding or manners,' Gney said, concurring with the Cardinal's animosity.

'What does he want?' hissed the Cardinal.

'I don't know, your eminence,' replied the Herald, 'shall I find out?'

'No!' concurred the military and spiritual leaders of France.

'Make him come back another time.'

The Herald left to see off the unwelcome Emissary.

'Disgusting nation!' said the Marshall.

'They paint themselves blue and drink fermented barley,' agreed the Cardinal, 'and I believe they still practice human sacrifice and demon worship.'

'Their language is inferior and inelegant.'

'And their food, if it can be so called, is barley edible. More suitable for animals than men,' concluded the Marshall. Both men now felt much better. They almost smiled at one another. Sadly this happy moment was brief.

'Are they not ruled by a Queen?' politely enquired Amarilla. Norbert spluttered and shuddered, the Marshall turned red and the Cardinal, although looking stricken, somehow found the strength to rise.

'I am afraid, child, that they are. It is a terrible error, an unfortunate blasphemy, a sad mockery of the natural order. That is why the nation is so regrettably cursed.'

'But,' continued Amarilla, deliberately avoiding the gaze of the Marshall, who was doing his best to silence her with what was known as his 'basilisk' stare, 'has not the country prospered under the Queen to such an extent that, despite the obvious prejudices of the French Nobility, the Britons have gained sufficient status that their Queen has had to be invited, by those very same bigots who despise her, to some major event that is shortly to occur in France?'

She smiled, innocently and the Marshall groaned inwardly. The Cardinal leaned back and sat heavily on his chair.

'And it is that event that we are here to discuss,' intoned Mascarpone. He was in no condition for a political debate; especially with this vixen of the Marshall's. It was unthinkable that a person of the female persuasion should contradict a Man of God. He felt momentarily sorry for poor Louis Deux who would have to marry (and presumably tame and house train) Amarilla; but there was no point pitying Kings, he reflected, every man must do his duty. His duty was to arrange the wedding.

'Yes,' the Cardinal continued, 'the unspeakable and unfortunately gendered ruler of Britain is here, along with many much more refined, interesting _civilised_ and masculine rulers to attend the marriage of the King of France, here at the Monastery of Monte San Carlos at the end of this very week.'

'How exciting!' replied Amarilla, 'Louis- I mean his Majesty- is getting married? To whom?'

A blush spread across Marshall Gney's craggy countenance and he found himself staring at the floor. His discomfort caused Mascarpone to burst into a peal of delighted laughter.

'Has the Marshall not told you?' he enquired in a mocking tone, 'has the 'Hero of France' not plucked up the courage to tell a simple girl of his intentions? Oh, this is blissful!'

Amarilla turned to look at her uncle, while the Cardinal almost danced from his throne.

'Well, I must be the one to break the great news,' he continued, 'The intended Bride of Louis the King of France is you, Mademoiselle de Cassiones, it is you! That is why we are here. To ensure we all know our parts in the ceremony. I would have thought the Marshall, your Uncle, would have managed to apprise you of this most salient fact!'

From the Marshall's demeanour, Amarilla knew that Mascarpone was telling the truth. She looked hard at the old man. She liked him, or rather, she had liked him, but now she could hardly bear to look at him. She felt empty inside. She wanted to speak or scream or object, but for once, she found no air in her lungs.

'My parents?' she managed to ask, almost in a whisper.

'Would like you to be Queen,' Gney replied, 'it is a great honour.'

He still could not look up and meet her eyes. She breathed in and suddenly the vacuum of hurt and loss filled up. She was full of rage,

'And you agreed to this? You arranged this. You did this without asking, or even telling me. You know what I think about things like this, and yet you still went ahead and made arrangements with _this man._ '

She glared at the Cardinal, who, as much as he was enjoying the scene, hoped that Amarilla would not turn her wrath on him. She did not. Her anger and contempt were reserved for her uncle.

'You consented to this. You agreed _on my behalf!_ You had no right to do this!'

'It is legal,' Norbert unwisely interjected, 'he is your legal guardian.'

'Then he should guard me, and defend my rights rather than try and marry me off to one of the most boring men who ever lived.'

She turned to the Marshall.

'I won't marry him, even though he is the King of France. I won't marry him because firstly; I don't love him, secondly; I don't choose to, and thirdly because he isn't even who he says he is. I don't think he is the real Louis at all!'

Having spat out this rather dark and delicate state secret, Amarilla turned and stormed from the Chapter House, leaving the awkward Grandees momentarily paralysed in the face of a fact, which both of them knew, but neither could afford to acknowledge.

The Marshall stared into space and Mascarpone felt the strong return of his hangover. At length the Cardinal spoke, rather more kindly than was normal for him,

'I think, I mean I hope,' he mumbled, 'she will come round to your way of thinking.'

As the Marshall turned to go, he added,

'Before the wedding, would be best.'

Chapter 4

In which, after the avalanche, an unpredicted attack from a predictable enemy is thwarted by a shadowy figure. A completely unexpected Emissary arrives in an unusual manner and suggests a surprising course of action. With so many surprises it is not surprising to find Roscow more than a little confused as to what mission he is really on! Gareth (the former Royal Dog) is not at all confused. He loves snow and fighting!

Gareth, the former Royal Dog, was utterly unprepared for the avalanche. He had been skipping happily ahead of the short man. (This was how he thought of Beowulf, whom he now regarded as his master. He had formerly belonged to King Lars, 'the loud man' and briefly to Grendel the Troll. He had never got round to naming Grendel and then Beowulf had killed Grendel; which although sad, had saved Gareth from the awful strain of thinking up a name for him.)

Although 'unprepared' could be said to be Gareth's natural state, he lived life in a wide eyed joyful way which meant that he was ready for anything; and so, when the ice cracked and Beowulf, Roscow and Gareth began to slide down the precipitous slope in an ever increasing spray of snow, he let out a howl of delight, abandoned all effort to keep his feet and quickly surrendered to rolling, head over heels, happily down the mountainside. Beowulf, who was a quick learner (and a serious existentialist), followed this fine example, and they were swept together, over the edge of the cliff in a torrent of fast flowing snow. This carried them on, down the mountainside and into the forest below.

Roscow, being given to a higher degree of anxiety about whether he lived or died, was not able to yield to the fury of the avalanche with the stoicism demonstrated by man and dog. He threw out his hands to clutch at branches, tried to hook his boots onto edges, ledges, boulders, anything! The result was the same, but far less enjoyable; he was swept over the side and carried away by the same mass of snow into the same forest below.

Grendel's mother, who had started the avalanche, in an effort to kill them, looked down from higher up the pass. She had been pursuing Beowulf since he had killed Grendel, by the lake where they had both lived, some months before. She would have liked to give a satisfied grunt, spit once at her fallen foe and return to her home; but she could not be sure that Beowulf was properly dead. He might have survived the fall. She doubted it. It was a long way down, but she needed to be certain. So, instead of grunting and spitting, she uttered a curse and set off down the mountain.

She was utterly unaware of a small human figure, even further up the pass, who had been watching her. As she set off towards the forest, the figure began to follow.

Gareth had survived the fall and had quickly dug himself out of the snow. He had begun to run around and search for someone to play with. As he could see no sign of Roscow or Beowulf he ran off into the trees in the hope that there might be some small animals that he could chase. He loved the feel of the snow and the smell of the pines. He was as happy as a dog could be! What fun to fall off mountains and roll in the snow! If he had been able to formulate the thought he would have wanted to nothing more than to climb all the way back to the top and do it all over again. Sadly, this was way beyond his intellectual capability, and so, instead, he had to content himself with running into the woods.

Although still alive (grateful to be so in Roscow's case; studiously indifferent to the 'casual ravages of simple fortune' in Beowulf's) they were both less happy than Gareth. Beowulf, due to both his smaller size and greater relaxation, had survived the fall better. By the time that Gareth had lost interest in looking for him, he had recovered enough to realise that he had survived the avalanche and was buried under a depth of snow. He had already determined which way he believed 'up' to be. He had done this, by wriggling his head, to make a space around his mouth. This enabled him to spit, the spit went down so he knew which way was up and he had begun to tunnel in that direction. Roscow was equally snowbound but had only managed to come to the conclusion that he was alive and that, sometimes- in fact, quite often in his experience, it hurt to be alive. He had as yet no plan to even try and move. He felt that it was only fair that he should be able to enjoy a few moments of self pity before resuming the eternal, unrewarding struggle.

While Beowulf was tunnelling and Roscow was getting ready to 'await rescue,' Gareth had run on. He had startled some squirrels, who had defeated his vigorous yet simple assault by sprinting up the trees in a most unsporting manner. He had contented himself by running around the base of the trees barking and howling aggressively in an upward direction. The squirrels, wisely, were not at all inclined to come down and give him a rematch, and so, after a while he lost interest and wandered on, further up the mountain. Here, he would have witnessed something much more interesting if only he had continued up the path for a few more minutes; however, at the critical moment he caught the scent of the squirrels again, and being utterly incapable of learning, he optimistically assumed that this time he would run them to earth. In order to achieve that noble dream, he ran off, back into the wood.

Had he ventured that short distance further, he would have seen Grendel's mother. She was swiftly climbing down the mountain. She was a tall, powerfully built Troll, just a shade less than seven feet tall, with sharp, strong nails and a fierce array of teeth mounted in a powerful jaw. Her face betrayed the murderous concentration and intensity she brought to her quest for vengeance. She was determined that nothing should distract her from her quest, however...

'Coooeee! Hey, Lady Troll! Ztop vor a moment!'

The voice was human and female and came from higher up the mountain. Grendel's Mother stopped and looked up to see a small, black clad human female waving at her. The girl (or woman-it was hard for Trolls to tell) was short, dark haired and dark eyed. All her clothing; her boots, her tunic, her cloak were pure black. She had pale hands and a pale face, the only colour being the red of her lips, which Grendel's mother assumed she had enhanced, in the way that human females did. She was now climbing rapidly down the slope towards her, still calling out.

'Lady Troll! Lady Troll! I am coming.'

In a short while the small woman was stood next to the Troll.

'Thank you for waiting,' she began, 'it is most urgent that I am speaking with you.'

Grendel's mother towered over her and eyed her suspiciously,

'Why?' she asked, 'Who are you?'

The woman giggled; Grendel's mother noticed that her lips were _very_ red and her teeth were _very_ white.

'The last, first,' she said, 'I am Gretza the Angel. I come from zhe East.' She gestured to somewhere far beyond the mountain.

'I am on a mission for my Mazter. He knows of you and he knows of your quest. He likes Trolls and he understandz vengeance.'

'Who is he?' asked Grendel's Mother.

'I am not to zay,' replied Gretza the Angel, 'but I am to zay to you, "do not kill Beovulf yet." I am to zay this, as my Mazter has commanded me, and I must do as I am commanded. He did zay zhat I must stress the vord "yet!"'

Gretza the Angel waited. Grendel's mother thought about this.

'Why must I not kill Beowulf? He killed my only son. I have tracked him for miles across forests and mountains and now my enemy is at my mercy.'

'I am not to be saying. It is not for me to zay. I must just zay what I am commanded. My Mazter vants you not to kill Beovulf yet.'

Grendel's mother lost patience.

'This is foolish! Your master, who you will not name, wants me to spare my son's killer, but you will give me no reason. I will not assent to his request. I will have my vengeance!'

Grendel's mother turned and set of down the path. Gretza the Angel looked sadly at the ground.

'He said zhat you vould be saying zhat,' she said to herself quietly, and then with an outrageous burst of speed she ran after the Troll and sprung onto her back. Before Grendel's Mother could react, the small woman had struck her repeatedly on the back of the neck with what appeared to be a rock.

She collapsed like a felled tree and Gretza the Angel jumped clear as the Troll fell to the snow covered ground. She landed neatly on her feet, took a deep breath and said again, sadly,

'He said you vould be saying zhat. Vhy is he alvays right?'

She cleaned her rock in the snow and went to check on the body. It seemed that Grendel's Mother was unconscious. Gretza the angel rolled her onto her side and said,

'Zhat should give me time to get zhem away. Sleep vell, Troll Lady.'

At that moment, Gareth came running up barking. He had heard the sound of the falling Troll and come to investigate. He growled at the small woman who seemed quite unafraid. She stared, hard at him.

'Come here, good dog!'

To his surprise Gareth wandered over and licked her hand. She laughed,

'Come on let us go and find your Mazter. My Mazter requires him saved- so saved is vhat he must be.'

She ran off, surprisingly quickly. Gareth followed. They ran together into a clearing where the avalanche had deposited a great field of snow. Gretza the Angel stopped; hushed Gareth and then directed him to a particular area of snow. She pointed,

'Dig zhere,' she said, 'and you vill find him. I vill have done my job for now.'

Gareth began to dig, while Gretza the Angel walked away into the woods.

'It is remarkably fortuitous that we were accompanied by Gareth on our trip down the mountainside,' Beowulf observed to Roscow some time later. This was after Gareth had dug out Beowulf, and Beowulf and Gareth had dug out Roscow. They were all (except for Gareth, who had gone to further pursue his acrimonious relationship with the squirrels) exhausted and had sat down in the wood to enjoy the last bit of sun before the cold alpine night began.

'Although, I had correctly located the direction to dig, the limits of space and oxygen may have caused me to fail had not our intrepid canine companion lent his unlikely assistance.'

'You mean without the dog, we would have been dead,' said Roscow.

'Drearily put, but true,' observed Beowulf, 'whoever would have thought of Gareth as a hound of destiny? If I were inclined to gratitude I should feel grateful!'

Roscow smiled at this and asked,

'Where are we actually going? I know we are on the run from the Duke, the Troll and the Pope, but since Wittenberg you have formed some kind of plan. Don't you think it's time to let me in on it?'

Beowulf yawned.

'Are you sure you wouldn't be happier not to know?' he enquired, solicitously. 'You know that you do have a terrible tendency to worry about trivia.'

'You mean things like "life and death"?'

'That kind of thing, yes-' Beowulf broke off suddenly, 'Do you see that tiny speck just to the left of the mountain? I think it's getting bigger. Do you think it's moving?'

He pointed up towards the peak of the mountain. Roscow was unimpressed.

'I'm not falling for that! What are we doing?'

'It is definitely growing,' Beowulf insisted, 'I think that it is a man of below medium height, attempting to float down the side of the mountain using a large sheet as some kind of braking or flying device to which he is harnessed, but if you unwilling to contemplate such an interesting sight I will ignore the phenomenon and interest you in our involvement in French politics.'

Beowulf paused. Roscow opened his mouth, but decided against arguing. He knew it was no use.

'The late King Jacques of France, (a boring old buffer the world is better off without) had two identical sons; Louis and Louie-Louie; why they can't think of more interesting names is beyond me. I suspect that they'll probably have a stack of them before they get bored of monarchy and start cutting their heads off, but that's beside the point. (It definitely is a man falling from the sky using a kind of sheet to slow his fall; not that I wish to distract you, but it is amazing! I've never seen anything like it!) Louis was bought up by our old friend Marshall Gney and the runt went to Cardinal Mascarpone, of whom the less said the better! Somehow, that villain, the Pope, has managed to switch the twins and left Louie-Louie on the throne (disguised as his brother). This is to ensure that the Pope and the Duke of Jutland keep their revenues from Holy Gambling, which Louis, before his substitution was going to stop in order to help the Old Marshall build a massive army and attack them. By "them" I mean, of course, the Pope and the Duke. The Marshall, who had left me a message at Wittenberg, wants us to go to Monte San Carlos, locate the lost Louis and substitute him for Louie-Louie without anybody noticing. Simple! Now can we watch the falling man, please?'

Roscow was already watching the falling man, as was Gareth, who had run up barking. The falling man was an incredible sight. He was, as Beowulf had estimated, a man of below average height; apart from that, almost everything else about him was unusual. He was wearing a black, polished metal helmet, from which two delicate silver horns protruded. Flowing out from under the helmet was a great mane of long yellow hair. He had a small, scrunched up, round, pink face that was dominated by a huge downturned blonde moustache. Underneath the rope harness that attached him to the floating sheet, he wore a black furry jacket that had tiny strips of grey running through it and on his legs he wore yellow and black checked trousers. Above him floated the great white sheet. As Beowulf, Roscow and Gareth watched, he landed, with a delicate roll, a short distance away from them, on the snow. The sheet deflated. The man unfastened the harness and approached,

'I say!' he shouted, 'that was dashed exhilarating! What ho! You must be Beowulf,' he pointed at Roscow, 'and you must be Roscow,' he gestured at Beowulf, 'and that fine pedigree hound can only be the one and only Gareth!'

Gareth feeling delighted at this recognition began to jump up at the stranger who petted him generously. He appeared to genuinely enjoy being dribbled on. Beowulf and Roscow exchanged a look.

'So, vhat if I am being Beovulf?' asked Roscow, affecting what he thought was a good German accent. He was often mistaken for Beowulf as he looked far more heroic than his small, bald, bearded, spherical (and infinitely more dangerous) friend. Whenever this occurred he liked to adopt an accent ('as part of the disguise'). Beowulf had been unable, so far, to insist that he discontinue this irritating and pointless habit.

The stranger eyed him coldly.

'I say, sir, that you are who I have said and I will not be importuned by any imposture.'

He paused, to allow this important, although curiously phrased, point to sink in.

'I am Carruthers, Caractacus Carruthers. I am here representing Her Majesty Queen Boo Dikka of Britain. I am from Her Majesties' Secret Service.'

He bowed. Beowulf was fascinated, but allowed Roscow to continue.

'Vell!' he snorted, 'you are not very secretive in this Secret Service, are you? Now ve all know who you are and vhat you do.'

Carruthers appeared to think for a moment.

'Dash it! You are right of course,' he conceded, 'we seem to have got off on rather the wrong foot. I am on frightfully important business and Her Majesty needs your help. If you wouldn't mind I could simply sit down and explain. This whole Secret Service thing is all a bit new to me.'

He patted Gareth and smiled. Roscow assented and soon Caractacus, Gareth, Roscow and Beowulf were sat in a small circle amongst the trees.

'How can we be of service to the Queen of Britain?' asked Beowulf. He was still posing as Roscow.

'That is an absolute first rate question!' exclaimed Carruthers, 'As you know Britain is a rather new country, still very much looked down on in places such as Italy and France where people have been, at least by their own account, civilised for a long period of time; but the new Queen; she wants to change all that. She said to me, "Caractacus, we shall have a mighty empire too! We won't have those other nations looking down on us, just because we are a beer drinking, woad wearing, bog dwelling group of odd fellows from a rain sodden island!"'

'So she sent me to find you in order that I might inspire you to help us with what we call "the problem of the French succession."'

Both Beowulf and Roscow groaned.

'I can see you know what I mean!' shouted Caractacus excitedly, 'But let me explain: Old King Jacques of France who recently died, had-'

'-Twin sons!' Roscow and Beowulf interrupted him together.

'Well,' said Caractacus, slyly, 'that is what everyone believes; however the truth is often just a tad different from that which is generally believed by the common herd. The late King of France had triplets! Three boys! The second (who is generally known as the first) is called Louis and was briefly the King of France (in an acting capacity) before being stolen and replaced by his brother, Louie-Louie. Louie-Louie is actually the third son of Old King Jacques, as the first son was smuggled away from both the Marshall and the Cardinal, so that he could be bought up to rule France as King Jacques would have wished.'

'In short, he was sent to England?' asked Beowulf.

'Mr. Roscow,' replied Carruthers, 'There are no flies on you!'

He looked at Roscow, who he presumed to be Beowulf.

'I thought you were meant to be the smart one?'

'Zhat I am.' agreed Roscow, but Beowulf was keen to seize the initiative.

'I am Beowulf,' he said, 'and this is Roscow. People often make this mistake. Even people in what could be called "the intelligence community." '

Before Carruthers could reply, he continued,

'You claim that the rightful heir to the French Throne, the eldest of the three identical triplet sons of the late King Jacques, is in Britain?'

Carruthers looked uncomfortable.

'There are two points of interest here, where there is a small degree of variance from the case, as you put it. The first is an elementary issue, the rightful heir, or "Lewis" as we like to call him, is not in Britain. He is in disguise. He is at the French Court, posing as a footman to our noble Queen Boo Dikka; long may she reign in grace and splendour! They are there to attend the Royal Wedding.'

'Who iz getzing married?' asked Roscow, unable to drop the accent.

'Why, the King of France, of course! He is marrying Amarilla De Cassiones. She is the niece of Grand Marshall Gney.'

'But who the King will be at that moment is the point of interest,' said Beowulf.

'At present it is Louie-Louie, pretending to be Louis; if the Marshall has his way then it will be Louis; and if you and your Queen have your way, it will be Lewis, pretending to be Louie-Louie, pretending to be Louis. I concede that it is an almost interesting situation. There was another point that you needed to make?'

'Ah,' said Carruthers cautiously, 'you used the word, "identical?"'

'Yes,' replied Beowulf, 'Louis and Louie-Louie are identical twins, or two thirds of identical triplets. They are both short of stature, slow of speech and have black curly hair, dark brown eyes and nothing to recommend them. They are utterly uninteresting and reputedly indistinguishable from each other.'

'Well,' said Carruthers guardedly, 'I would not go so far as to say that Lewis is "exactly identical."'

Beowulf raised a quizzical eyebrow,

'How far down the road of "not saying this" would you like to go?'

Carruthers considered this carefully; his brow crinkled and his bushy moustache twitched,

'I would have to say that, in order to be accurate, open, honest and truthful; I would have to venture a considerable distance down that particular road. I would be compelled to say that Lewis was not _physically_ similar to his siblings, however I would say that he is both mentally and materially similar-'

'By which you might mean that he is slow witted and rich?' interrupted Beowulf, who was beginning to form a particular conclusion about the relatedness of the 'triplet.'

'Please describe the first born son of Jacques, the late King of France to me.'

'As you wish,' Carruthers conceded graciously, 'it will be my pleasure. He is slightly tall.'

'How tall is he?'

'I find your metric measures quite difficult,' Carruthers prevaricated, 'about two thingies, I think.'

'You mean that he is two metres tall,' asserted Beowulf.

'Zhat is close to being az massive az I!' observed Roscow, 'Zhat is not zlightly tall, zhat iz gargantuan!'

'And he has long, blond hair and blue eyes.' Carruthers concluded speedily. He then sat back, as if daring Beowulf to point out the problem.

Beowulf exchanged a glace with Roscow; the big man shrugged to indicate that this was an impossible mission; Beowulf grimaced to convey the idea that, despite the impossibility, he was interested.

'I anticipate that the putative Monarch of France does not even speak a smattering of the language of his native nation?' Beowulf asked Carruthers, 'I base this prediction upon the established certainty that no one from your island is at all capable of learning any language other than their own.'

Carruthers smiled,

'It is because of that inestimable ability to estimate that we came to you! You are, of course, correct! Lewis has no French whatsoever, not one dickey bird!'

Beowulf returned the smile, although there was little friendly about it,

'So Carruthers, my old mate (as they say in Britain); what you want me to do is this; kidnap the imposter to the French Throne, thereby further annoying the Duke of Jutland and the Pope (who already want to kill me) and replace him, not with the identical rightful heir to the French Throne, as I have been requested so to do by my old friend, Marshall Gney, but with a giant, blonde, British imposter, who will be utterly unable to help me in this task, as he doesn't even speak any French.'

'I think that's about right,' agreed Carruthers after careful deliberation, 'although I wouldn't say that Lewis was an imposter. He is, after all, the oldest of the non identical triplets and was removed from France for very good reasons.'

Beowulf considered,

'Why would I want to do this?'

Carruthers had clearly come prepared to answer this question.

'There are a number of splendid reasons for you following this admirable course of action. The first is that this would not just annoy the Pope and the Duke of Jutland, it would infuriate them! They already hate you and wish you dead and so I say to you, "spit in their eye and let them have it!" You have nothing to lose by angering them.'

'I am sure that, while you regard Marshall Gney as a friend, I think that if you reflect, you will find that there is more than a grain of truth in the "whey faced, flatulent, posturing fool who could no more command an army than he could expound the ideas of Plato," comment. Bearing that in mind I am sure that you would not want his protégé running wild in Europe. With the revenues from Holy Gambling the French would soon become too strong and _they_ would establish an Empire. You would not like the _orderliness_ of that arrangement. I think that you would feel _constrained;_ you are at your diabolical best in a chaotic world tortured by conflict, rather than a world _marshalled_ (if I might use that phrase) by the Gneys.'

'Obviously you would be well remunerated, which I imagine interests you, to some extent. You would also be known as friend of Britain. This could become important, bearing in mind all the powerful people who want to kill you. Our island will always be open to you as a refuge.'

'The final reason that this may appeal to you; and personally I think that this is the best reason of the bunch; is that this is a completely impossible task! The idea that a man, virtually unaided, could thumb his nose at the Pope and the Duke of Jutland, steal their fake King and replace him, not with an identical imposter, but with the true and rightful heir to the throne (who incidentally looks totally unsuitable for the part and does not even speak the language) under the watchful eyes of the leaders of Europe and the mighty French Army, is so far from possible, that it must appeal to a man of your beliefs and skills. It is the challenge of a lifetime!'

'Or,' argued Roscow, 'It iz a fools' errand and you vill be killed. Probably in some 'orrible vay.'

'Uhm,' grunted Caractacus, 'that is, of course, a possibility.'

Roscow knew Beowulf as well as anyone in the world, but he was utterly unable to penetrate what thoughts were going on behind his impassive face. It was clear that he was thinking things through, but Roscow had no window into these thoughts. His friend's motivation was always an enigma to him. On occasions Beowulf seemed to be motivated by simple things, such as greed, revenge and lust. On other occasions he had deliberately done things against these objectives. Roscow had heard Beowulf expound his philosophy that 'absolutely nothing matters at all, whatsoever, so an enlightened man should do whatever he wants.' Roscow was not at all enlightened himself and was even less enlightened about what Beowulf actually wanted, if he wanted anything at all. He wished that Beowulf could adopt a more consistently self serving philosophy that gained them some tangible benefits, such as security, wealth or power. Roscow was certain that they would go to France and somehow get embroiled in this messy succession; but which side Beowulf would take he could not foresee.

'I will help your Queen,' Beowulf declared. He sounded so convincing that Roscow almost believed him. He might help the Queen, he might not. There was no way of knowing until it was too late. Roscow reluctantly admitted to himself that this was part of the joy of Beowulf and then was angry with himself for, yet again, failing to be pragmatic.

Caractacus Carruthers was very happy.

'Excellent decision, Old Man! You won't regret it. The Queen and Lewis are already in situ at Monte San Carlos. If you hop over the next few mountains you can catch up with them there before the Royal Wedding, swap the groom and Bob's your uncle!'

Suddenly Beowulf glared at Caractacus.

'I have no uncle – my father would have killed him!'

Caractacus looked sheepish,

'Sorry,' he said, 'that's not what I meant. It's a British expression. It means that things will be straightforward.'

'But they won't,' Beowulf rebuffed Carruthers sharply; 'This is very complex. You should understand this. It will be very difficult and dangerous. There will be a large pile of gold in a small castle in Switzerland for me to return to when this is done.'

'Of course, of course,' agreed Carruthers meekly.

Roscow liked the sound of this, but he was not at all convinced that Beowulf would take the gold.

'I'm supposing,' he said, 'that ve vill start over theze mountains in the morning?'

'No,' said Beowulf, 'we will leave at once; and you will use a less annoying accent once we are in France.'

Roscow cursed under his breath and then replied,

'Vell, I vill be doing my bestest!'

Chapter 5

In which, Amarilla confronts her Uncle, seeks solace in fast food and conversation. She considers the options for women of her time (with one or two who know a thing or two) and finally, she meets a charming stranger, who gives her chicken.

Amarilla was lying in wait. More accurately, she was sitting on a bench just outside the monastery of Monte San Carlos, looking out over the bland, cheerful, blue sea, and waiting for her Uncle to finish his meeting and follow her. She was shocked and disappointed, not as one would easily suppose, with her foolish, conniving, narrow minded, traditionalist Old Fool of an Uncle; but with herself. Amarilla prided herself on her ability to think and act decisively in her own interest. She had no time for the subordinate role of woman as required by Dark Age French society; she wished to be mistress of her own destiny and to do that she needed to be mistress of her own emotions. She felt that she had let herself down very badly.

She was also very angry that she had not anticipated this wedding being arranged behind her back. It was 'how things were done in proper society' and it was a simple and obvious move to consolidate her Uncle's power. He had raised the French Monarch and, if he were able to marry the King to his niece he would hold a very secure grip on power in France. She should have seen it coming. She knew how he thought. She should also have been able to work it out from Louis' behaviour; although the blood of the Kings of France ran through his veins, very little mental activity took place in his Royal head. When he had said ponderous things such as 'I look forward to a future where our families may be even closer' it was now glaringly obvious what he had meant; but she had failed to see it! She had thought he was talking about working more closely with her Uncle when the money from the Holy Gambling was kept by France instead of being sequestered by the Pope. She felt she had been very stupid indeed not to see this coming.

This was because she worked very hard to not be stupid (an attribute she was supposed to possess on the basis of birth, caste and gender). She had realised for herself that the Louis' had been switched and she had worked out who was responsible and why. She knew the importance of the revenues from Holy Gambling, as she had studied to find out things; such as the cost of equipping an army. She knew and understood her Uncle's plans for strengthening the nation sate of France as well as he did. She had seen how the British had achieved something similar (hence the comments in their favour that had caused such consternation in the Chapter House) and she regarded herself as a well educated, astute, determined, practical modern woman. This was why she was so ashamed of her response in the meeting; she had behaved as if she was a little girl who had been denied a toy.

But really! She was supposed to marry that dullard Louis – or even worse his equally insipid, pseudo-religious brother Louie-Louie! How could her Uncle consider that reasonable? How could he still think this when he knew that Louis was not even Louis? Would a marriage under those circumstances even be valid? As well as the political aspect there was the personal one- Amarilla found neither of the Louis' at all attractive. They were small, dark and slow, like tame furry bears. She had never really quite seen a man she might consider suitable; but she was sure that neither of the two Louis' were what her friends might describe as 'the one.'

She had begun to work out a plan to confront her Uncle, but before it was all clear in her mind, he was there. He glared at her and sat down, very heavily, on the bench beside her. They both inhaled deeply, ready for battle.

The Marshall broke first. Much to his surprise, instead of the anger of betrayal he had expected when he left the Chapter House, he found that there was a lump in his throat.

'I'm sorry; I should have told you earlier.'

Amarilla was too angry to register this apology.

'You should have asked me.'

The Marshall had expected his apology to bring about reconciliation and the rejection of this wounded him. The opportunity for healing passed. He sat up straighter.

'I asked your parents; they approved. I asked the King, he approved. It is a great honour to be the bride of a King; it is a great honour to be Queen of France. You should be thanking me, not having a tantrum like a petulant child. Do you think many young women get an honour and an opportunity like this? Everyone has their place in the world and this is yours. It is also a place you are lucky to have.'

Despite her anger Amarilla could recognise a degree of truth and fairness in her Uncle's argument. Everyone did have a place in the world and she knew that she was fortunate to be wealthy and to have escaped the poverty in which nearly everyone else lived, nevertheless she was determined to be free and she could see that marriage to either of the Louis' was no kind of freedom at all. It was this threat to her liberty that identified for her that freedom was the thing she valued the most.

The recognition of this sent her mind racing. If she could not marry a Louis and be free, then she must not marry a Louis; but how could she avoid this, if the King, her Uncle and her parents agreed? She had no legal status to oppose this; and if she absolutely refused, what would happen to her? She knew that people did not slight the will of Kings without consequences.

The energy that she had channelled, ready to argue with her Uncle now dissipated. There would be no joy in winning the argument- the important thing was to find _what she could do_. She realised that she did not know how to go about doing this. She needed to get away. She looked at the Marshall and felt a terrible frustration that he _just did not understand_ what he had done. She knew that he did not intend to harm or hurt her, but his unshakeable belief that, whatever he arranged, she would fall in with, had hurt her. This realisation also almost overwhelmed her.

'I'm sorry,' she said, 'it was a shock.'

The Marshall, taking this for acquiescence, answered,

'It was my fault. I should have told you earlier. You should have not have found out like that. It was a mistake.'

Amarilla nodded, but did not answer.

'I think it will turn out well,' the Marshall continued, 'I have men working to get the proper Louis returned; you know I would not wish you to marry his brother.'

'Unless it suited your purpose' was the thought that came to Amarilla's mind, but again she kept her head bowed and said nothing.

'A girl must marry, you know; and marrying a King is an honour. To be a Queen is to be somebody in the world, and that is what I would want for you.'

'It is what I want, too,' agreed Amarilla, aware that the ambiguity of her response would pass over the Marshall's head.

'I am so glad,' said the Marshall, standing up; and the pleasure that he obviously derived from her compliance nearly caused her to lose control again.

'I shall sit here a while and think things through,' Amarilla announced, in what she hoped was a meek voice.

'Of course, of course,' agreed the Marshall, 'and then come back home and we will discuss the details.'

Again Amarilla nodded. The Marshall hesitated for a few moments to see if she would say anything else. As she did not, he, somewhat guiltily, hurried away. As soon as he was gone, Amarilla got to her feet and started off in the other direction. She walked past the monastery and down towards the town. There was a large travelling fair set up, just outside the town that she now realised was part of the celebrations for the forthcoming Royal Wedding. As the fair was, at least in part, in her honour she decided that she ought to give it a visit.

Emsmeralda (known as Emsie, for short) was exactly the same age as the Marshall's niece. That, apart from considering herself a 'well educated, astute, determined, practical modern woman' and an innate intelligence that she was not supposed to posses was about all they had in common. Emsie's hair was blonde, her eyes were blue and she had the fairest complexion. Sadly, from her point of view, there were no princes lining up with offers of marriage for her. This dearth of alluring matrimonial offers left her working in her Grandfathers' chicken stall.

Her Grandfather, claimed to have been a Colonel in the great army that Marshall Gney had led against the Batavian Army at the battle of Linz. Emsie's Mother, the 'Colonel's' daughter, said that it was more likely that he had been a corporal- or even more likely a cook. Whichever was true, it was certain that Emsie's Grandfather had returned from Batavia carrying a new recipe for Batavian spit roasted chicken with spices that everyone, rather surprisingly, declared to be delicious. He had then purchased a concession to sell this spiced chicken, in a travelling carnival. This notable event had taken place a number of years ago, on 'the day my life ended,' as Emsie was prone to describing it.

Her (quite accurate) view was that her Grandfather had kidnapped her from her parents, in order to have someone to turn the chicken spit and serve customers, while he went out drinking the proceeds of the spit-roasted chicken business. Emsie had now toured Europe with the old man for five years and she was unimpressed. She was unimpressed, with her Grandfather, the chicken business (despite the fact that, on occasions, after he had drunk a good deal, her Grandfather would tearfully declaim, 'when I'm gone, all this will be yours!'), the carnival and Europe. This was because all she had seen of Europe in the past five years was the inside of the chicken tent. She was aware that she was on her way to being disillusioned and, being a resourceful and optimistic girl, she was determined that this should not happen; however, each day in the chicken tent, tested her resolution just a little further and she was aware that something would have to be done soon.

She was not aware that the future Queen of France had just entered her tent, as she was fully engaged in chasing off Albert, a large black and white cat that had attached itself to the carnival. Albert, after a little casual thievery, had developed an insatiable addiction to Grandfather's chicken. So bad had his lust for the chicken become that he was compelled to attempt to raid the chicken tent nearly every day.

Albert had climbed furtively up into the roof of the tent, earlier in the day and then he had lain quietly, in the rafters, while Emsie had prepared the chicken; waiting for his moment to strike. Emsie, unknown to Albert, was comfortably aware of his presence. She was waiting, with an equal level of patience, for her turn to strike. As Amarilla entered the tent, Albert had sensed that his moment had come, and he had prepared himself to make a chicken grabbing spring. Emsie spotted the twitch of his muscles tensing and gave the appearance of looking away. As Albert jumped, leaping down on the chicken tray, Emsie bought her large wooden spoon up, knocking Albert away from the chicken and onto the floor.

'Out! Go on, get out! No one wants you here!' shouted Emsie at the unrepentant feline, who reluctantly crawled away.

Amarilla was taken aback, unaware that the comments were directed at the vanquished and fleeing Albert. No one had addressed her in this way before; certainly not a serving girl in a chicken tent!

'Excuse me!'

Emsie still had not looked up and assumed that the visitor was from the carnival,

'Why, what have you done?' she laughed and then stopped short and wide eyed. It was immediately apparent that Amarilla was _not_ from the carnival.

'Excuse me,' she said. Neither girl seemed to know what to say next, so they stared at each other. Emsie recovered quicker,

'Do you want some chicken? It is really quite good.'

'I'd like that,' replied Amarilla, 'but I don't have any money, or rather, I have an awful lot of money, but I don't have any with me.'

Somehow, at that moment, all the emotion of the day caught up with her, and to her dismay she began to sob. Emsie was equally horrified to find herself with a rich girl blubbing away in her tent, it was sure to mean trouble; however, she had a kind nature and few girls her own age to talk to.

'I'll get you some chicken,' she said, 'and we can, you know, talk?'

This produced another sob from Amarilla, who nodded; and so Emsie got some chicken, shut the tent flap and they both sat down on a low bench.

'What is it' asked Emsie, who had some experience of what usually upset girls at the carnival, 'A boy?'

'No,' said Amarilla, 'it's worse.'

'Tell me,' said Emsie.

Amarilla did.

'So,' summarised Emsie, some time later, after a fair consumption of story and chicken, 'the problem is this: although you are an extraordinarily beautiful, fabulously wealthy, young heiress, who is engaged to the King of France; you feel that your life lacks direction and meaning because you have no freedom to act as you would choose and are forced into a subordinate role because of the patriarchal nature of our male dominated society?'

'That is just what I would have said,' agreed Amarilla.

'I suspect that you would not have put it as succinctly; I happen to be an excellent summariser.'

Both girls laughed.

'And your problem,' reciprocated Amarilla, 'is that although you are an extraordinarily beautiful, absolutely destitute, possible heir to an alleged chicken empire; mercifully free of romantic entanglements (although I suspect that the boy at the Rum Merchant's is still pretty interested); you have no direction in your life and you are terribly afraid you are going to spend the rest of it serving chicken and are therefore hoping that something will turn up.'

'Pretty neat,' conceded Emsie, 'but you forgot the bit about the resentment of the inferior status and objectification of women, that is incompatible with the ideals of modern France.'

'So I did,' laughed Amarilla who was both surprised and delighted with her new (and as the Marshall would have had it, 'totally unsuitable') friend.

'What are we going to do?' she asked, 'it seems hopeless. I shall have to marry whoever turns up at the monastery whether it is Louis or Louie-Louie and I will have to do what I'm told.'

'Or you'll end up selling chicken like me.'

'I'm sorry,' said Amarilla, 'I think your problems are worse than mine.'

'I'm not so sure, at least I don't have to marry a martial numbskull or a religious nut and then pretend to be happy about it.'

Both girls considered their options, but neither could find a way ahead.

'What are we going to do?' repeated Amarilla, 'did your mother never give you advice?'

'She did. "Look out for your Grandfather; he's insane," was one bit. The other piece of priceless wisdom was; "don't wear pink with red." I don't think either helps. What about yours?'

'She had a lot of variations on the theme of, "a _real_ lady does such and such." They amount to, "grin and bear it." There must be someone, I mean some _woman_ who really does know better.'

This last comment gave Emsie an idea. For a moment she was too excited to speak. Then she did.

'I know! I know! There is someone; some _woman_ who does know better! She's a Queen without a King and I think that she does whatever she wants.'

Amarilla realised who Emsie meant,

'Boo Dikka; the Queen of England!'

'And she is here,' shouted Emsie, 'none of the Noble French will have her to stay, so she has pitched a tent, just up the hill from the fairground. We should go and ask her!'

'But how, would we get to see her?' asked Amarilla.

'Don't worry,' said Emsie, 'I have a plan.'

'Lady Amarilla de Cassiones to see Her Royal Majesty, Boo Dikka, Queen of the Britons,' boomed the herald and Amarilla (much to her surprise) accompanied by Emsie, who was bearing tributary chicken, entered into the tent and presence of the Queen of Britain.

The tent was opulently furnished with red and gold materials. It was also large and long enough to allow visitors to approach the Monarch. Amarilla could see that the Queen and two men were sat on large velvet cushions at the far end of the tent. They were drinking, and had perhaps been laughing; but now they turned to look at Amarilla and Emsie. Amarilla was glad she had been trained to be 'out' in society. Emsie was glad that she was stood behind Amarilla.

The Queen was striking. Although seated she was tall, easily as tall as one of the men she sat with and almost as tall as the other. She was dressed in purple silks and had golden head and wristbands that caught the torchlight in the tent. She had a strong, yet feminine jaw and large brown eyes. What surprised Amarilla was that the Queen was dark skinned. Amarilla had seen women from Africa and that was where she would have guessed the Queen came from. She had always thought that Britons were a light skinned race, much more like the two men who were with her.

The first was a powerful built, barrel-chested, middle aged man, who wore a dark cloak over some sturdy chain mail. He was blond haired, but his hairline receded and he had an old wound running down the side of his face. He had staring blue eyes that seemed not to blink. Amarilla decided that he looked scary.

The second was a tall, slender, blond haired young man, who was dressed as a servant, but seemed to be keeping the Queen company. His eyes were also blue, but a much kinder and softer blue than those of his companion. He smiled at her and Amarilla decided that he looked 'interesting.'

The Queen and her companions stood to welcome the guest. Amarilla noticed how powerful the Queen looked. 'Like an Amazon, from the legends' she would describe her to Emsie, later on.

'Welcome,' said Boo Dikka, 'Was it Amarilla de Cassiones? The Fiancé? Please come in and bring your maid, we don't get many guests.'

Cushions were pulled up and they all sat.

'We aren't really here on state business; that was a lie,' said Amarilla, as soon as they were seated, 'we wanted to talk with you and we couldn't think how else to get in.'

The Queen laughed,

'Do you think they are assassins, Dorf?' she asked the older man.

He stared grimly at the girls,

'I would have to consider the possibility, Majesty – they have something in the bag.'

He gestured at Emsie,

'Chicken.' was her nervous explanation. She held out the bag of chicken. Dorf jumped to his feet and grabbed the bag. He rummaged through it in search, sniffed at the chicken and then said,

'It may be poisoned.'

'It is not,' said Emsie, forgetting her nerves 'it is very good chicken, and-'

'You know, because you made it,' finished the Queen, 'I think it is safe to eat. You may try it, Dorf.'

Dorf tried the chicken.

'It is good,' said Dorf happily. He then sat down and started to really tuck in to the chicken.

'What is it you wanted to see me about?' asked the Queen, while Dorf continued consuming the bag of chicken.

'We need advice,' began Amarilla.

'About how to be a modern woman,' continued Emsie.

'And have the life you want!' Amarilla concluded.

The Queen laughed delightedly.

'And you thought I'd know?'

'Yes,' replied both girls earnestly.

'You are a Queen without a King. You rule your own Kingdom, choose your own advisors. You can do what you want.' explained Amarilla.

'Dorf, where is my husband?' asked the Queen.

'Gone, missing, who knows?' Dorf returned to his demolition of the chicken.

'I can see that you are serious,' said the Queen, 'Dorf, you may leave us. My servant will remain, as he understands no French. I will tell you my story.'

'Thanks,' growled Dorf getting up. He gestured with the bag to indicate that his thanks were for the chicken. He went out of the tent, leaving the girls with the Queen and the young man.

'I was not born in Britain, I think; but I grew up there. As you know, it was not really a nation at all until recently. I lived with a tribe who dwelt in one of the many forests. My parents had joined the tribe and been accepted. The beauty of being British, is that; you move there, decide you belong and then you do; that is the best thing about the place. My husband-to-be was the son of the chief of the neighbouring tribe, with whom we were perennially at war. I think that my husband's tribe may have been slightly stronger, but neither tribe could gain the upper hand and the war was very costly in terms of life, rustled sheep and burnt crops. The elders of each tribe decided that the war must end. So, the elders of my tribe asked the elders of his tribe what was required for peace. My husband's father wanted three hundred sheep and a large quantity of copper; which was far beyond what my tribe were prepared to pay; but fortunately he died and his son decided that all he wanted was me.'

The Queen smiled, 'I was quite happy with this (which does seem ridiculous now!) as I wanted to see more of the world than my tribe travelled. I was also flattered that this young chief wanted me - even more than three hundred sheep and a ton of copper. It was quite romantic, in a way, and so we were married.'

At this point the young man, who had been intermittently sharpening a knife and drinking, interrupted (in English, of course)

'What are you talking about?'

'The price of chicken in France,' replied the Queen.

'Ah,' replied the young man, 'I am sure they have good chickens in France.' He smiled at Amarilla, and then went back to his sharpening.

'At first the marriage was a great success; we had a fine time ruling his tribe and starting a war with the tribe on the other side of his. He taught me to drive a chariot and we went to war together. The tribe on the other side were not strong and soon we ruled them too. Then the chief of my old tribe grew sick and somehow we ended up ruling this as well. As we became more powerful, I began to see how there were benefits in being bigger; some tribes had sheep, some had timber, some only had people. I realised that if we worked together, then we could achieve much more and so I worked to unify the tribes and bring them under our control. The diplomacy went well, as I'm sure you know, and we began to learn about other countries and how they organised themselves. Eventually, we created the Kingdom of Britain. That was when the marriage went bad.'

Boo Dikka paused, as if she had difficulty recalling past times, and then she continued,

'You would have thought my husband would have been happy to be the King of Britain; but as you have recognised yourselves, there is no joy in doing something that is not of your own heart. He liked being a chieftain, with the hunting and raiding; he did not like being a King, with all the responsibility that came with that role. I think he also did not like it that I was better at ruling then he was; however, that is how it was- I was a much better ruler than he was or ever would be. He began to be difficult. Sometimes he would deliberately give bad orders; some times he was drunk; often he just did not turn up. He became a liability. The Kingdom was suffering.'

'What did you do?' asked Amarilla.

The Queen dropped her voice,

'You met Dorf?'

The girls nodded.

'Dorf was a general in the German wars. He had come to Britain looking for work. I hired him. He helped me.'

'How?' asked Amarilla.

'We got rid off him,' whispered the Queen.

The girls were shocked,

'Is that what you have to do to be free?' asked Emsie, 'I mean I have thought about bumping off Grandpa, but it just doesn't seem right!'

'Do you swear you will tell no one if I tell you?' asked the Queen.

The girls swore, a little uncomfortably. Amarilla felt that the Queen, who seemed like a good person could not have murdered her husband. She thought the Queen might have killed him in a fair fight (and she looked strong enough to have done it) but she did not think she would have had him assassinated in cold blood.

'I did not have him killed,' said the Queen, 'but I would have done if there had been no other way. One night, when he was drunk, Dorf helped me take him in a wagon. We drove to one of the remotest parts of our island where there is a tribe too savage to join us. I had found out that they would accept another warrior and so I gave him a choice - to live there or not. I was happy that he chose to live, and I am sure he is happier where he is. Most people believe that I had him killed. The official story is that he went out hunting and did not come back.'

'I am not sure if that helps at all with your own dilemma. Women in our time are caught up in the rules and traditions of our people and these give us only a few choices. I try to use mine to change some things. Perhaps you will do the same.'

She smiled at the girls,

'And now you must go! There is a chicken store that needs tending, and I imagine Marshall Gney will be anxious about his niece. I will send my servant to escort you, as it is getting late.'

The girls tried to say that this was not necessary, but the Queen was used to having her own way and so Amarilla and Emsie found themselves being escorted back to the chicken tent by the tall blond Briton.

'I wish I could speak your language,' he said to Amarilla, confident that her English was a match for his French, 'as you are such a fine looking girl. I would really like to talk with you!'

Amarilla giggled and explained to Emsie, what their escort had said.

'He looks all right, too!' observed Emsie, 'better looking than your intended.'

'Yes,' agreed Amarilla, 'But I think I will have to go through with the marriage.'

'I thought so as well,' agreed Emsie, 'you have to take the power.'

Amarilla nodded,

'And you?' she asked.

'I'm going to have to get Grandpa to retire!' laughed Emsie, 'then I'm going to rule the roost in the chicken business. Or maybe sell it; I'd like a business selling scrolls. Writing is the coming thing.'

'How are you going to get him to retire?' Amarilla asked.

'Now that is the question,' agreed Emsie, 'I don't have a Dorf to help me!'.

They fell silent and walked along. Amarilla stopped.

'Name?' she asked the Briton, in fake faltering English.

'Me? Lewis is my name. Lew – is!'

'He may be hot, but he's not bright.' observed Emsie.

'You, name, please?' he asked Amarilla, with a look of pathetic, puppy-dog helplessness; the kind of look that moves the sentimental and kind hearted, while nauseating the more worldly. Amarilla had not yet been on the other end of that look from a tall, handsome stranger, and although she realised with one part of her mind that this kind of thing could get tiresome; there was another part of her that felt very different. It was a sort of tingly, lightheaded, floating kind of feeling.

'Amarilla,' she replied.

'Am-a-rilla,' the young man pronounced, 'that is a beautiful name.'

'Oh,' groaned Emsie, 'Biology!'

'Lew-is,' said Amarilla. Their eyes met.

'Am-a-rilla,' said Lewis.

Emsie poked him hard in the ribs. Lewis looked down. They had arrived at the chicken tent.

'Chick-en!' said Emsie, pointing to the tent. They went in. Fortunately Albert had not eaten the stock and Emsie's Grandpa had not yet returned.

'You go now!' said Emsie to Lewis, using some of the manner she usually reserved for Albert. As she was pushing him from the tent Lewis had an idea. He produced a large silver coin and shouted,

'Chick-en!' showing an aptitude for languages that was a rarity in Britain.

Emsie continued to shove, but the young man stood firm.

'Chicken,' he insisted, Chicken – Amarilla!' He gestured, showing that he meant to buy the chicken for Amarilla. She giggled, which made things worse. Feeling conspired against; Emsie banged over to the counter and began to prepare chicken.

'This is really stupid,' she observed to Amarilla, 'I'm sure he is a nice boy, but he's a servant and he doesn't even speak your language.'

She might as well have been talking to herself. Amarilla and Lewis stood close together waiting for the chicken.

'Chicken?' asked Amarilla.

'Chicken,' confirmed Lewis, solemnly.

'Idiots!' observed Emsie, who eventually served them some chicken. Amarilla took the chicken.

'Thanks,' she whispered, 'you were really kind to listen. I'll be back to see you.'

Although Emsie was quite cross, she whispered back,

'Thanks to you, too. Do be careful; remember you were going to marry the King a minute ago!'

This bought Amarilla up short.

'I was, wasn't I?'

'And you were going to take control of your life.'

'Yes, I was.'

'And now-'

'Chicken – Amarilla!' shouted Lewis, gesturing that they should leave.

'I must be going,' said Amarilla, who went and joined Lewis.

'With the man with a two word vocabulary!' Emsie observed to herself, 'Still at least he bought her chicken!'

As the couple left the tent, Emsie reflected it was going to be a long night in the chicken selling business.

'Am-a-rilla,' said Lewis, as they emerged into the cool evening air, hand in hand.

'Lew-is,' replied Amarilla, who was furiously thinking how to tell him that she could speak English, without betraying that she had understood what he said earlier.

'Amarilla!' said a quite different voice. Amarilla turned around to see the captain of her Uncle's household guard and some of his men.

'Your uncle sent me to find you, and here you are...' the Captain was not quite able to finish the sentence, although his look of disapproval was very easy to read.

'Eating chicken,' said Amarilla, taking a step forward to shield Lewis from the armed guards.

'Eating chicken with whom?' asked the Captain, looking, with some hostility, around Amarilla, at Lewis. The other guards fingered their weapons.

'Lewis!' shouted Emsie emerging from the tent. She pretended to be surprised to see the guards.

'Lewis, get back in the tent!' she instructed and pushed him away, 'the young lady can carry her own chicken!'

Lewis went into the tent,

'Please excuse him,' she said to the guards, 'he was just, trying to help the young lady carry her chicken. He's a bit simple'

'Thank you,' Amarilla said, formally to Emsie, 'the chicken is delightful!'

'Thank you,' she said to the guards, 'for coming to get me. It is getting late. We must go.'

She set off quickly, giving the guards and the Captain little choice but to follow.

'Am-a-rilla!' called Lewis from the tent.

'Shut up!' replied Emsie, with a sigh.

Chapter 6

In which the papal representatives gather to gloat at the success of their plan. Elsewhere, Beowulf and Roscow are cornered and another plan for the increasingly complicated French Succession is revealed!

Louis, the rightful King of France (depending on whether or not you accept the British claim) was, in his own, unimaginative way, not happy at all. He was in a dark dungeon, in a small cell with no windows. The cell was furnished with a hard wooden pallet on which he could either sleep or sit, and there was a bucket. Mostly there was a glimmer of light from beyond the hard, iron bound door, but not always; sometimes it was just dark. This was not much entertainment for the King of France. He was relieved that, at least, the iron mask that he had been made to wear while transported to the dungeon had been removed. There was no point in it being worn, as no one visited, no one came in and no one went out. He was unsure how long he had been held captive, but in all that time nothing had happened. He was miserable, angry and bored in equal measure.

He supposed that he could perhaps have felt grateful. At least he was still alive. At least there was some food pushed under the door each day. At least someone did take away the bucket, if he placed it through a partition in the cell door. As the Marshall, who had raised him used to say, 'Where there's life there's hope!', but there was precious little life and Louis suspected there was precious little hope. He estimated there were several long hours ahead before the next plate of food. He would have liked to spend those hours reflecting on his options; however, there seemed to be no options open to him apart from sitting and waiting. He resigned himself to doing just that.

At that moment, he was startled to hear sounds in the distance. He had become quite attuned to the sounds of the dungeon and he realised that this was not one of the regular sounds. There were more people than normal and they were not the regular guards; he knew the sound of their boots. He was caught between hope and fear. It could be rescue, but it could also mean death. The Marshall had raised his Louis as a stoic and the Marshall would have been proud of the stoicism with which King Louis sat to meet his fate.

As it was, it turned out to be neither. He knew that men were outside and talking about him, but he could not hear what they said. He knew that they could see into the cell through a grille, whereas he could not see out; so he did not know who they were, or what they were doing. If he had been more curious it might have driven him mad, fortunately, he was not.

The men outside the cell were, in a rough order of importance; Cardinal Bull, special representative of his Holiness the Pope, the sort-of-Sun King, Louis the magnificent, King of France (although he was, of course, an imposter; nevertheless he was next in line to the throne, in the event of the death of Louis, and so he was, at the very least, a prince), His Most Exalted Eminence, Cardinal Mascarpone, Heinrich, a Captain in the Papal Guard and Commander of the Guards at Monte San Carlos, Erich the Chief Gaoler and Norbert, who was merely there because Cardinal Mascarpone had failed to remember to tell him not to come. The men stood, conspiratorially, in the passage outside the cell and regarded the rightful King of France.

'It would be kinder to kill him,' said his twin kindly. Both Cardinals glared at him.

'I know, I know. "The Church does not commit regicide." I can't see why not. With him gone I am the rightful King of France and nothing can go wrong. This is all a bit risky.'

'The risk is minimised,' said Heinrich, 'the location, although obvious; is secret. The guards do not know who they guard, and they are plentiful. The Monastery is secure. There will be no rescue.'

'I 'eard that Beowulf is coming,' said Erich, unhelpfully, while scratching himself, unhygienically, 'ee might be a bit risky.'

Heinrich glared malevolently at his underling.

'If a rescue is attempted, it will be neutralised. I have no fear of Beowulf.'

'Besides, if Beowulf were to come, which I hope he does, he would be putting himself into a trap. Louis is secure and we may yet use him to ensnare our enemy.' said Bull, with an air of smugness.

'So why are we here, in this dismal dungeon?' asked Mascarpone, who would really have liked not to come; he was sure that there was still a nice bottle of something, left in the wreckage of his room.

'Because we must be sure what we are about,' said Bull, 'Let me be clear; we have all conspired to kidnap an anointed King. If anything goes wrong, we will all be to blame.'

Bull leered at his companions.

'Take a good look at the Royal Accommodation. If any of you fail in this conspiracy, you will be lucky to be as sumptuously housed as our Royal friend within. His Holiness will not accept failure in this matter. The Holy revenues must continue to accrue in a righteous manner. Louis must stay a prisoner and our Louis must do his duty and rule France. Does everyone understand?'

Their silence said they did.

Norbert was troubled; he had lived in the Monastery at Monte San Carlos for many years. Despite his (sensible) fear of Bull; he gave voice to his doubt,

'Isn't it very easy to get down here if you go through the \Monastery kitchen?'

The wise men of state and clergy groaned at the ignorance of foolish servants and Mascarpone gave him a half hearted cuff, 'for being a nuisance.' They then departed. Norbert waited until they were gone and then walked on to the kitchen to check. As he had suspected, he was right, but no one had seemed to be interested, so it couldn't be all that important.

In his cell, King Louis wondered what the commotion had been about.

On the road to Monte San Carlos, Naiman was waiting. He was confident of his plan and sure of his ability. It was late evening and he was concealed in a clump of trees, near to an abandoned barn that he had found while scouting the road the day before. As soon as he had seen it, he had been in no doubt that it would do very well for his purpose. Mentally, he went through his plan, just one more time. He smiled with a mixture of satisfaction and anticipation.

Roscow was unusually happy with the way things were going. They may be off on a doomed mission, where he and Beowulf would be horribly outnumbered and there might be little prospect of surviving this venture; but, at the very least, they were definitely out of the mountains. Roscow had promoted mountain climbing on his list of least favourite activities; it had topped previous leaders, such as fighting wolves, wading through swamps and staying in flea infested inns. He was positively joyful that, almost every day now, was spent walking down hill. They were nearly at the coast. He loved the coast; there were no mountains on the coast, no snow, no climbing, and no altitude sickness! To make things better, they had not been attacked for a number of days; and is seemed as if they had finally shaken off the old Troll who was stalking them. They had made good progress all day, and, just to round things off, there appeared to be a barn in which they could spend the night. Roscow offered a guilty little prayer of thanks. The prayer was guilty, as he knew Beowulf was an atheist and took a very dim view of, what he called, 'primitive superstition.' Roscow smiled a guilty smile and trudged onwards.

Beowulf eyed the barn suspiciously.

'It looks too good to be true,' he mused, 'It is exactly the sort of place I would have selected for an ambush, had I been seeking to stop us from getting to Monte San Carlos. The past days on the road have been quiet, which I assume is a ruse to put us off our guard. We must be careful.'

Roscow groaned in disappointment, but did not argue; Beowulf was too often right to be ignored. They prepared to skirt the area, going to the other side of the road. In his hiding place, Naiman smiled; all was going too plan.

Opposite the barn was a thicket, and it was into this that Roscow and Beowulf disappeared, in order to pass the barn unobtrusively. Gavin who was hard on their heels caught an interesting, unfamiliar scent. He stopped. With a particularly happy bark he ran off too the barn, into which he swiftly disappeared. Beowulf and Roscow stopped too watch. Nothing happened.

Gareth ran happily into the barn, enchanted by the smell of some kind of rotting meat. He had a vague recollection that he was supposed to be following the tall human, but that quickly disappeared when he found out what was in the barn. Had Gareth been able to describe what he found and been given to the use of metaphor he would have said that it was 'a library of smells'. (Obviously he would have had some difficulty coming up with the concept of library; he was not much of a returner of 'borrowed items')

The rotting meat was just by the door, but further inside there were greater delights! He was sure there was a whiff of dead bird and possibly some kind of liquid manure? As the voracious connoisseur of stink, that he was born to be, there was no choice but to get in there and root around. As he charged, happily, madly, joyfully across the floor he had a sudden impression that things were not quite right; but by the time that thought had registered, it was too late; he had fallen in the pit.

Outside Roscow and Beowulf were focussed on the barn.

'It's a trick,' said Beowulf suddenly, 'we are meant to look. Move!'

His urgent command came too late for Roscow, as Naiman leapt from the tree behind them and knocked the big man unconscious with a single blow.

'Now,' he observed, 'it's just you and me.'

Beowulf drew his short sword, shrugged off the cliché and dropped into a fighting stance.

Gretza the Angel, who had followed Beowulf and Roscow since she had freed them from the avalanche ('like a guardian angel' she thought, ironically), was fleetingly panicked; she was not supposed to let Beowulf die, but then again she was not intended to reveal herself either. She decided to trust the small mans fighting abilities and only intervene if all were lost.

'There is no need to fight,' said Naiman, who certainly looked inclined to fight; he was holding a dagger in each hand. Beowulf eyed his lithe, muscular physique and concluded that the combat would be 'testing.'

'Perhaps I want too,' he ventured, 'I dislike "professional" assassins.'

'You think it should be the preserve of the gentleman amateur?' replied Naiman, 'that is a noble sentiment.'

'You are surely not going to regale me with a story of "working class boy made good" are you? I doubt you've ever worked and I'm not at all convinced of your "goodness." I am sure that you are in the service of at least one of the supposed elite. Which one I wonder?'

Beowulf anticipated that, if he pretended to think and fractionally lowered his guard, then Naiman would strike, giving him a good base to counter from. In the first instance he was correct; Naiman came at him in a flash of swirling knives, but the assassin was so fast and powerful that it was all Beowulf could do to block his thrusts and give ground. By the time he was ready to counter Naiman was back beyond his range.

'Not the Pope,' decided Beowulf, 'he would never hire someone who tried to portray himself as an infidel; but you are not from the East. You are not from the cult of the assassins.'

'You are sure?' asked Naiman briefly, he had recognised that Beowulf was trying to use the conversation to try to put him off guard.

'Sure,' confirmed Beowulf, 'you have the faintest accent of southern Spain. You are good, though. I hope you are being well paid for the danger.'

Naiman laughed,

'What danger? I am a master of combat. I am younger, stronger and better-'

At that moment Beowulf lunged and sent a flurry of blows at Naiman's legs and arms. Again Naiman was too quick, he slipped a few feet away towards a clearing in the forest. Beowulf immediately assumed that this was a trap and stopped following.

'A wise man told me that a master does not need to boast,' he said, waiting.

'Surely a master can speak the truth?' retorted Naiman, 'I do anticipate that I will best you, however it is not my mission to kill you; otherwise you would be dead.'

Beowulf considered this, but still did not step forward.

'Then your mission is?' he asked, keeping his eyes on the assassin. Beowulf assessed that, had Naiman been seeking to kill him, then he would not have created the single combat scenario, he would have tried to kill from a distance with some kind of missile weapon or a trap; however, Beowulf was never prepared to dismiss any possibility, particularly if it could end with his immediate death

'I am to make an offer, of a job; from your Father.'

This did surprise Beowulf and on the word 'Father' Naiman launched another hugely powerful attack. This time he charged and twisted inside the reach of Beowulf's sword. Beowulf had to drop the sword to grab Naiman's wrists. They were now locked chest to chest and Naiman used his superior weight to drive Beowulf backwards through the wood.

Naiman had prepared a trap, but it was not in the clearing, where he had led Beowulf, it was in the opposite direction. Naiman pushed and strained and both men fell into the covered pit he had prepared. Naiman landed on Beowulf and although he was winded, he was faster than Beowulf and he put his dagger to the smaller mans throat.

'You see that I could take your life if I wanted,' breathed Naiman, scraping the dagger against Beowulf's throat.

'But not without losing your own,' gasped Beowulf.

Naiman was aware of a blade being held just below his ribs.

'I don't think you want to die just to please the Duke of Jutland,' said Beowulf, 'whereas I am quite happy to end my own futile existence by finishing yours.'

He lay back and smiled. Naiman was unnerved, but did his best to conceal this.

'It is fortunate then, that my mission, is not to kill you,' he said slowly, 'shall we get up?'

Beowulf nodded. Naiman quickly sprang to his feet and vaulted out of the pit. Beowulf sat up.

'Aren't you going to give me a hand?' asked Beowulf.

'I don't think so,' said Naiman. They both smiled at this.

'The Duke of Jutland wants the Pope's plot to fail, but he does not want to be responsible for the failure. He wants you to ruin the plan. Louie-Louie must be deposed and Louis must replace him. That's what he wants.'

'What do I get for that?' asked Beowulf.

'Forgiveness,' said the assassin, drily.

Beowulf laughed, but it was not a mirthful sound.

'And do I need or want that?'

'I don't know,' said Naiman, 'but that's the offer.' He turned as if to go and then was struck by an afterthought,

'And if you don't take it; then I am supposed to kill you.'

Then he was gone.

After Beowulf had climbed out of the pit, he went and rescued Gareth from the barn.

'Stupid animal,' he observed kindly. They went in search of Roscow, who was already sitting up and rubbing his head.

'What happened?' he asked.

'You aren't going to believe it, when I tell you,' said Beowulf, 'let's go and eat in the barn, I'm sure it can't be a trap twice.'

Chapter 7

In which, Louie-Louie does not look forward to looking forward to his eagerly anticipated wedding at a ceremonial dinner. The dinner occurs. Elsewhere Lewis is lost and found and Beowulf tries his luck, and is, for once, appropriately rebuffed.

Louie-Louie (now officially known as 'Louis') the King of France was looking forward to his dinner. At least, he was looking forward to the eating part of dinner, as he was hungry, but he was not so much looking forward to the social part of having dinner. In fact he wasn't looking forward to that at all. At the dinner would be Cardinal Bull and Marshall Gney. He wasn't sure which of them he was more afraid of, but he was quite certain that he was seriously afraid of them both. The thought of them both together (and that they would be angry was a certainty, as they did not like each other) made him nauseous with fear. He was also not happy that his adoptive father, Cardinal Mascarpone, would also be there. Louie-Louie had noticed that he had become even more unpredictable (and drunk) recently and it was very likely that he would behave in an embarrassing way in front of Bull and Gney. He tried to feel some loyalty towards his adoptive father, but instead he only felt acutely awkward. This feeling extended to the special guest of the evening, his bride to be, Amarilla De Cassiones.

He felt very uncomfortable about her. He felt as if he should have approached her, as he was going to marry her. He entertained a meagre hope (which dwindled the longer he dwelt upon it) that she might just _like_ him, at least a little bit. Louie-Louie had very little experience of being liked. His birth father, the late King Jacques, had taken no notice of him; his adoptive father, Cardinal Mascarpone, was really incapable of liking another human being, and everybody else had treated him with the respect and deference that was due to the brother of the putative King of France, but all of that fell far short of affection. He sensed that his brother, whom he was now impersonating, might have liked him a little, having had a similarly strange upbringing, however they had often been apart through childhood and he was certain that his brother would not like him now.

Returning to the thought of Amarilla, he felt another shudder of unease. She was clever, or perhaps, witty. Louie-Louie knew that he was not. It was going to be hard talking to her; she was sure to find him dull. She might be angry about the wedding. He tried to build up his own confidence; after all, he was the King of France - except his conscience told him that he wasn't.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He was small, dark and unappealing,

'Good evening, Amarilla, I look forward to knowing you better,' he practised. Except he couldn't say that, because he was supposed to know her better; Amarilla had grown up on the same household as Louis and he was supposed to be Louis.

'Good evening, Mademoiselle de Cassiones, I mean Amarilla; I am happy that you have consented to be my bride. I anticipate with eagerness our wedding night- I mean our wedding. Oh dear!'

Louie-Louie looked away from the mirror in discomfort; however that had been nearly right. He would say "wedding" and not "wedding night"; that would be fine; it was appropriate, it was regal, it was princely. That caused him another shudder. Why had he agreed to this? He really wasn't cut out to be a monarch; if he had been, he would have said "no" to Mascarpone and Bull; he would have said, "I don't want to be the King of France."

Glumly, he reflected that he had not done this and so he was stuck with this dinner. With an air of resignation he put on his crown (just the light dinner crown, not the full sitting in state thing) and went down for dinner.

It was to be an intimate dinner and the other guests had already arrived. Sat clockwise around the King's oblong dinner table were Cardinal Bull, Cardinal Mascarpone, Eugene D'Orbergene (the lieutenant who had been so useful in the disappearing of the original Louis), Amarilla and her uncle, Marshall Gney. The tension in the room was significant. Gney and Bull were engaged in the staring competition that always occurred whenever they were together, Mascarpone was in the nervous state he generally endured when he had made the effort to get to dinner (relatively) sober and was then compelled to endure, until the first glass was poured. Amarilla had a lot on her mind.

Since her talk with Boo Dikka her ideas had undergone a profound change. She was still committed to the ideas of freedom and equality for women, but instead of considering these ideals purely for herself, she felt herself to be responsible for the advancement of these principles for a wider group of women. In this light, becoming the Queen of France was an opportunity to press forward this agenda that she could not afford to ignore. On a personal level though, the thought of marrying the uninspiring Louis, or his brother, was deeply disappointing, particularly having just met the much more interesting Lewis; but Amarilla had been raised on Marshall Gney's values of 'personal sacrifice for the common good' and she was preparing herself to do her duty. The Marshall himself had been very surprised when she had returned home and said that, on reflection, she consented to the marriage and thought that it would, perhaps, be a good thing.

A herald announced the arrival of the King and the guests stood.

The King entered; welcomed his guests and the dinner began. Mascarpone delightedly grabbed himself a glass of wine and felt as good as he had all day. Cardinal Bull began the conversation,

'It is now two days until the wedding,' he boomed, 'I trust all is prepared?'

Mascarpone should have been able to reassure his superior that all was in hand, but, having downed his own glass with a swift flick of the wrist, he had managed to pick up D'Orbergene's 'by mistake' and had his nose firmly buried within it.

'All is in hand,' said Gney, stonily, 'My niece is ready.'

'Is she?' asked Louie-Louie, who then realised he had shown an un-regal excitement in this news, 'I mean, that is good to know.'

'His Majesty seems very keen,' drawled D'Orbergene quietly to Amarilla. He had decided it would be quite the thing to flirt with the Queen to be. Amarilla ignored him,

'The King does me a great honour.'

'Every King needs a good woman to help him in the state!' exclaimed Mascarpone, inappropriately, 'Otherwise the Royal mind can wander!' He was wondering if he could 'mistakenly' snatch anyone else's drink.

'And that would be against the teaching of the Holy Church!' asserted Bull, with his usual vehemence.

'While that is not a good thing; a King should be free to rule as he sees fit. That is clearly what God intended,' contradicted Gney, his dislike of Bull quite plain to be seen.

'But that is not as God intended! God intended that Kings should listen to the Pope!' shouted Bull.

'I think you are exactly as God intended,' whispered the amorous D'Orbergene to Amarilla.

'Rubbish!' argued the Marshall, 'The Pope says that Kings should listen to the Pope. God never said any such thing!'

The arguing and shouting were putting Louie-Louie off his duck soufflé.

'Please,' he said, with an almost _kingly_ diplomacy, 'I'm sure I shall listen to the Pope, and try to rule France to the satisfaction of the Marshall.' Before the pillars of state could pick up the cudgels of wrath again, he tried to change the subject.

'Amarilla, I mean, Mademoiselle de Cassiones, I am so pleased that we are to be married.'

'I bet he is,' mouthed D'Orbergene, 'If I were him I wouldn't be able to wait.'

Amarilla glared at him, but managed a smile at Louis-Louis,

'I am conscious of the honour you do me, your Grace. I shall, try to be a good wife and help you at the helm of state,'

Mascarpone spluttered, (on another glass he had somehow acquired, but from where?)

'That isn't quite the job, my dear! This isn't Britain. The Queen helps the King with appropriate things, such as deciding the menu for state banquets, not the actual running of the state! I mean, that's a bit more important than soft furnishings or recipes!'

The men of the party laughed at the ridiculous idea of 'women running the state.' Amarilla did well to keep her temper. It looked like being a long night.

Elsewhere, Beowulf, Roscow and Gareth had reached Monte San Carlos and, following the instructions of Caractacus Carruthers, they had presented themselves at the tent of The British Queen. When they arrived Boo Dikka and Dorf were in a state of some anxiety; it appeared that they had misplaced their heir to the Throne of France.

'He is off after the chicken girl,' declared Dorf, 'Since she came here, he has not been the same. We must go and find him.'

So, Beowulf, Roscow, Gareth, Dorf and Boo Dikka set off across the fairground in search of Lewis. When they reached the chicken tent they found a small, sullen, white-haired, old man sat on a wooden bench outside. He was smoking a pipe and looked startled by the sudden arrival of Beowulf and his companions.

'Service!' he shouted, in a peremptory tone.

Emsie came out of the tent carrying a large iron pan.

'Have you seen Lewis?' asked Boo Dikka.

'Do you mean the great oaf that can't speak French?' asked the old man, who was clearly Emsie's Grandpa.

'Yes.'

'Haven't seen him.'

There was a pause, while Grandpa sucked his pipe noisily and the others stared at him in disbelief.

'You have not seen a tall, blond Briton, who speaks no French?' asked Beowulf, politely.

''s right; haven't seen him at all.'

'Yet, you clearly recognise of whom we are speaking.'

'Oh yeh! You couldn't miss him. He's like a yellow headed tree. Can't speak the language at all and he's barking mad!'

'How do you know this?' Beowulf began top look less friendly. Grandpa took the hint.

'Well, now that I think of it, I may have seen him briefly, but I can't divulge his secrets.'

'Why not?' asked Beowulf.

'Customer-retailer confidentiality,' explained the old man, tapping his nose, 'What's said in the tent stays in the tent.'

'But you weren't in the tent!' interrupted Emsie, 'and you don't speak his language.'

'Yes,' argued her cantankerous Grandpa, 'but if I had've been, then I wouldn't be able to pass on nothing because of the sacred relationship that exists between the chicken purveyor and the _purveyee_.'

At this point Dorf tired of the debate and pulled out a hatchet,

'Which way?' he asked.

'Hang on a minute!' said Grandpa.

'No!' shouted Emsie, swinging the pan with some force. Dorf was unprepared to be panned by a chicken girl and so was struck firmly on the jaw. He dropped the hatchet in shock and his hands came up to his bloody mouth.

'Don't you threaten my Grandpa; even if he is wrong!'

The party, as one, took a step away from Emsie (and her chicken pan). Dorf groaned unhappily and Grandpa grinned gleefully.

'That's my girl!' he said.

Boo Dikka decided it was time she took over negotiations.

'No one will hurt your Grandpa, girl. We just need to find Lewis, as he may be in danger.'

Seeing as no one was now threatening Grandpa, Emsie decided to co-operate, (despite customer-retailer confidentiality!)

'He came in to get some chicken, which he thinks is called "pulley". Then he said it was a "Pretence for Amarilla, something something Amour" and that he was going to " _climbey_ _le Gateaux Wallys_ for her to see to."

'He went that way!' added Grandpa, 'And his French is horrible!'

Dorf groaned again and spat out a tooth,

'I think it is improving,' he observed, 'some of the words are nearly right!'

'You take him back to your tent and we will retrieve him,' said Beowulf to Boo Dikka, who agreed.

'Oi could give Gareth a sniff of that there chicken,' said Roscow, in his 'down on the farm' accent, 'And then he could track 'im, loike a rabbit!'

Beowulf stared at Roscow in horror and disbelief.

'No,' he said grimly.

'Oh yes!' continued Roscow happily, ignoring Beowulf's stare, ''Ee's a regular tracker dog is Gareth! Go on Miss!'

Emsie gave Gareth a sniff of the chicken pan, which sent him into a paroxysm of delighted anticipation.

'Seek!' shouted Roscow. Gareth bounded off across the fairground towards the monastery. Beowulf and Roscow followed on while Boo Dikka helped the injured Dorf away from the site of his defeat.

Grandpa looked happily up at Emsie,

'You're coming along!' he said, 'that was a proper panning!'

Emsie ignored him and returned to the tent.

Lewis was not very far away; he was trying to get directions to find Amarilla,

'Je seekey le belle girl with le chapeau black,' was the phrase that he was trying on some confused farmers when Beowulf, Roscow and Gareth found him. To celebrate the joy of meeting, Gareth snatched Lewis' chicken. Beowulf and Roscow stopped to watch.

'We do not understand your French,' one of the farmers explained to Lewis.

'Je need de finder mon amour vraiment!' he protested.

'He is English,' confided Beowulf to the farmers.

'That explains it.'

'How can we help him? We cannot understand him.'

'Je is trying to communicate!'

'Fortunately, I speak his language,' said Beowulf.

'That is lucky for him,' said one of the framers, moving off.

'Yes,' agreed his friend, 'why do they never learn?'

Deserted by the farmers, Lewis turned to Beowulf and was clearly preparing for another assault on the Gallic tongue, but before he could start Beowulf put up a hand.

'It's fine, I speak English. The Queen has sent me to retrieve you.'

'Oh,' said Lewis, 'I was looking for the girl.

'Aren't we always?' replied Beowulf, 'However, she will not be found tonight. We need to be getting back, in order to plan how you become King of all of this tomorrow.'

'You must be Beowulf!' observed Lewis to Roscow, 'who is your small friend, he seems to be quite helpful?'

Roscow worried about the state of France, if this was the kind of King they were getting then the French, he thought, should be worried too.

Back at the dinner, the lady had retired. That is to say Amarilla had left the men to it. For once she had welcomed the stupid custom of leaving the men to their brandy and pipes. She had endured enough of D'Orbergene's heavy handed flirtation, Bull's aggressive self assertion (that was rather like her uncle's; but religious rather than military) and Louie-Louie's (for there was no point her pretending to herself that she didn't know) feeble attempts to steer a diplomatic course. As for Cardinal Mascarpone; she preferred not to think about Cardinal Mascarpone at all.

She paused for a minute and looked out of the window. In two days time she would be the Queen of France; she would make a difference. She was cleverer, stronger and more determined than Louie-Louie. It was a sacrifice to marry him, but, inspired by Boo Dikka, she thought that she could make that sacrifice in order to change the world. She was also aware that a part of her wanted no part of this whatsoever. She could run away, perhaps; however she knew that running away was not in her nature. If there was a way to fight, she would fight, but she could see no way to do this. She was trapped, but would do what she could within the trap. That was what she resolved as she went upstairs to bed, thankful at least to be away from the men.

The men were in the last throes of manliness; they had realised that there was only one more day until Louie-Louie's wedding and had decided that he must, _absolutely must,_ have a stag party tomorrow and that they would all come.

'But what shall we do and where shall we have it?' asked D'Orbergene, 'There must be wine and girls!'

Gney was not so sure that he wanted girls; after all it was his niece who the King was getting married to. Louie-Louie was also not so sure that girls were appropriate, he was very aware that he was in front of two high up members of the clergy.

'Absolutely!' agreed Bull, didactically, 'no need for girls when a man is marrying.'

Mascarpone did not want to be left out,

'I know a farmer,' he began and then thought better of it.

'And?' demanded Bull.

Mascarpone was flustered, his drunken brain recognising that an interest in farmyard animals may not be a quality that Bull valued in a fellow Cardinal.

'He has these pigs...' confided Mascarpone, while he desperately tried to find a different ending to his sentence.

'And?' demanded Bull, his red countenance glowing with drink and anger.

'And... he makes home brewed cider, as well!' concluded Mascarpone with a terrible sigh. If they demanded home brewed cider he would have to send Norbert to find somewhere where they made it in the morning.

'Strange,' observed Gney, 'I haven't seen any orchards.'

Fortunately for Mascarpone, Bull had moved on.

'Holy Gambling!' he roared, 'We should go to the Monastery of Monte San Carlos and have an evening at the tables. No need for women or farmers or home brewed cider. We could have an evening of drinking and gambling and a fair bit of profit would accrue to the Holy Church!'

'Unless,' contested Gney, 'the King revokes the Papal Tribute!'

This caused Bull to go completely scarlet and his outcry was joined by Mascarpone,

'The King would never be so ungodly!'

The Marshall looked most displeased by this and the King looked very anxious. He really didn't want to talk about this.

'Holy Gambling!' he squeaked, 'At the monastery of Monte San Carlos. What could be a better bachelor party?'

D'Orbergene liked gambling and so said,

'The King has spoken. It is decided.'

And so it was.

In the tent of Queen Boo Dikka it was late. The recaptured Lewis had been sent to bed with the promise of a Royal Wedding as soon as he was substituted. Dorf had gone to nurse his injury. Gareth was asleep; having consumed a good quantity of Lewis' chicken and Roscow had gone out to try his accent out on strangers. (The truth of this was that he could no longer bear Beowulf's furious disapproval. Beowulf was convinced that Roscow had promised never to use the 'down on the farm' disguise accent again and was keeping up a resentful low growling complaint that used phrases such as 'reneged on his word' and 'betrayal of trust'.)This left Boo Dikka and Beowulf to sit on the royal cushions, in the candle light and drink the Queen's wine and plan.

For the first time in a long time, Beowulf felt himself to be in the right place. There was a plot, a beautiful Queen, a royal pavilion, it provided him with a rich backdrop; this was where he was born to operate.

'Your boy's no good, you know?' he said confidentially to the Queen, who smiled in return.

'I think he'll do. He is the legal heir to the French Throne, after all.'

Beowulf laughed,

'You surely can't believe that! I mean, look at him.'

'But I do. He is. I mean look at us. I-'

Beowulf interrupted,

'You look like a Queen,' he said. He felt he managed both warmth and sincerity in his tone, but the Queen just laughed again.

'But the Queen of Britain?' she asked, 'I mean, the other Britons are so pale! And you? You don't look like either an Evil Genius or "the most feared man in Europe".'

Beowulf was tempted to argue this. He was a little touchy about his appearance; however, in the interest of enjoying the Queen and candle light he let it go.

'I'm not,' he said.

'Not what?'

'The most feared man in Europe. I'm the deadliest, the cleverest and the most resourceful.'

'Are you?' the Queen's eyes widened, 'I'm so impressed. So you will have no trouble substituting Lewis for whichever of the Louis' is about in time for the Royal Wedding and the Parliament?'

'No trouble at all,' promised Beowulf and then he laughed.

'He can't even say two words of French, can he?'

'Is that going to be a problem?' asked the Queen, 'I thought you were "most resourceful"'

'No, it's not and yes, I am,' said Beowulf.

'I like a man who is resourceful,' purred Boo Dikka. Beowulf's hand snaked out to explore.

'Then you like me?'

'Oh yes,' agreed Boo, trapping the wandering hand, 'But I think I would need to see the man in action, before I could commit to anything. After all, not many survive their dealings with you.'

Beowulf retrieved his hand.

'That just adds to my attraction,' he boasted, 'I'm a real lady killer.'

'So I've heard,' she agreed, rather more coldly than he would have liked, 'and that means I should be cautious. How will you steal the Louis and swap in Lewis?'

Beowulf smiled,

'Although the substance of this substitution is your business; how I achieve it is mine. I have a bit of an idea, but I will need to find out where people will be tomorrow night.'

The Queen nodded,

'I can find out in the morning. Dorf has spies.'

'Then there is little more we can do about this business tonight,' said Beowulf, 'however-'

'However, a Queen needs her sleep when an important plot is on hand; even when the deadliest, cleverest and most resourceful man in Europe is on hand.' Boo Dikka smiled and got up.

'I'll see you in the morning' she said and before Beowulf could reply she was gone.

'Oi think you'll be a-staying up hoif the noight thinkin' aboit that one!' observed Roscow who had just entered the tent, 'Oi think that that there old Queen 'as got the measure of you.'

'Please stop using that voice,' said Beowulf, 'it drives me mad.'

'Oi think that ain't the only thing a-drivin' you mad tonoight,' replied Roscow, 'sweet dreams!'

Beowulf thought that inappropriate; it was unlikely he would sleep well. There was a lot to think about; three potential Kings of France, the Pope, The Duke and the Queen of Britain. Who was he going to help and who frustrate and how would he get it done, just the way he wanted? Honestly, he was really still quite unsure which outcome he would prefer; there was such a lot of choice.

Chapter 8

In which preparations are made for the Stag Night, the Royal Wedding and all manner of sinister plots!

Norbert crept, anxiously and impossibly quietly, along the corridor. It was his intention to get into the Cardinal's room, tidy up and get out again before anybody (by 'anybody' he meant the Cardinal) noticed that he was there. He had witnessed the drunken Mascarpone's late night singing return from the pre-wedding dinner and so he was confident of two things; firstly the Cardinal was alone and secondly, that he would be feeling very ill. This knowledge gave Norbert a sense of virtuous satisfaction as well as a small degree of confidence. He was therefore shocked to find Pedro the Pig Farmer sat outside his master's room.

As he approached Pedro put his finger to his lips, to indicate Norbert should be quiet,

'Why are you here?' hissed Norbert, 'Is he...?'

'No, no, senor. I have left thee peegs at home. I have heard there weel be a partee of some kind and I am here to volunteer my serveeses to the 'Oly Cardinal.'

'I don't think that will be necessary,' Norbert asserted self righteously

'I know you don't,' countered the farmer, 'but 'oo, after all, are you? You are not the 'Oly Cardinal; you are onlee 'is servant. I am waiting for the grinder of the organs, not 'is monkee!'

Norbert wanted to call for the guards and have the disgusting peasant thrown out into the fields where he belonged, but he was not sure what the Cardinal would do to him if he did, and so instead he said,

'His Holiness is sleeping now.'

Pedro nodded,

'I weel wait, unteel the great man is awakened.'

Norbert decided to ignore the farmer and press on. Stealthily, he turned the handle and slipped into the darkened room. He looked around fearfully; but much to his surprise things looked 'normal.' This was not a word he had regularly (if ever) used to describe the Cardinal's chamber. 'Normal', in the context of the Cardinal's quarters, meant a wide range of things, often very far from what Norbert would have liked to consider as standard. On this day, however, 'normal' was what it was meant to be; the furniture was where it should be, the smell was broadly human and in the bed there appeared only to be a sleeping (gently snoring) grandee of the Church. Norbert was shocked, had it not been for the quiet snoring he would have feared Mascarpone had died during the night. He was approaching the bed when the Cardinal abruptly sat up.

'Norbert! We must organise a stag party for the King. You must go at once to the Casino in the Monastery and reserve a room for the King to have a card game. There must be food, drink and women, although not scantily-clad, lewd women, but respectable, attractive and polite, serving women, who will serve the food while looking decorative, but not provocative. It must all be first class, by order of the great Cardinal Bull.'

Having achieved his mission for the day, which must have somehow been imprinted on his alcohol sodden brain, Mascarpone collapsed into a comatose state, hoping his servant would pick up the task. In his relief, he began to snore and dream of less respectable, more attractive serving women. Norbert left him to it.

As he was leaving he found his sleeve grabbed by the dirty, agricultural hand of Pablo the pig farmer.

'Eh, Norbert; what ees thees partee? Does the 'Oly Father want some peegs tonight? I also have a goat,' he added generously.

'Then,' said Norbert prissily, removing the grubby paw, 'I suggest you make use of it yourself. The Holy Father will be entertaining the King at the Casino and there will be no need for farmyard riff raff like you!'

With a swagger, Norbert went about his business. Pedro looked a little disheartened and then he shrugged his shoulders and set off down the hill.

Amarilla and Marshall Gney were having breakfast. The Marshall was pleased that Amarilla seemed to have changed her mind and had decided to be happy about the marriage. He was glad because, in a very traditional way, he thought that 'it was the best thing for a girl to get married' and also he was hopeful that Amarilla would not be quite as angry with him if she had really changed her mind about the wedding. He was still wary, and so he asked,

'You have really changed your mind about the marriage?'

Amarilla wondered whether she should tell the truth. That was her natural inclination, but her conversation with Boo Dikka had made her see that this might be a bit naïve, especially when dealing with politics. She fell someway in between truthfulness and political expediency with her reply,

'I have decided that a marriage to the King of France is the best possible outcome that can be achieved in the current political situation. Bearing in mind the choices available to most women, this is clearly, by comparison, a desirable acquisition of status and influence.'

This answer troubled the Marshall a good deal more than 'no' would have done.

'What I mean is, will you be happy? I wanted you to marry the King, because I thought that it would be good for you and Louis.'

It was rare for the Marshall to explain his feelings and his obvious concern for her upset Amarilla.

'But he isn't Louis, is he?' she said, 'somehow they've swapped him for Louie-Louie.'

Although he had heard her realise this before, it had never struck the Marshall that Amarilla really understood the political situation. The thought of what she knew and especially what she might _say_ caused him real anxiety.

'I know,' he said, 'I am trying to get him back and if I can, he will just be swapped back. You must never mention it. Just knowing it is very dangerous.'

He was then aware of how this might appear to Amarilla, to marry one Louis and have him replaced with another seemed, even to the Marshall, a bit callous.

'I am trying to have a rescue made this very night, so that you will not have to marry the pretender, or be with him at all; but we cannot speak of this- there are spies everywhere.'

They both quickly looked up and down the room, but there was no one in the atrium. They were alone.

'I have summoned Beowulf to rescue Louis and then replace Louie-Louie with him. I anticipate that he will strike tonight at the stag party Cardinal Bull has caused to be arranged in the Casino at the Monastery of Monte San Carlos.'

Amarilla was fascinated; she had never received political information from the Marshall before; it was intriguing. It was a shame that she found Louis as uninteresting as Louie-Louie; however, she thought, it was probably right that France should be ruled by its rightful King. She would just have to work with whichever brother made it to the church.

Then a thought occurred to her, waiting to see what happened was far too passive for her, considering her new commitment to political activity. She wanted to take action, and to make sure that things came out as well as they could. She decided that she would somehow go to the party, and if a chance came up to influence the outcome, then she would take it.

'I am sure you have thought out everything for the best, Uncle,' she said, in a tone that should have sent alarm bells ringing in the Marshall's head, but as a traditional, military man, he was easily soothed by the soft music of expected feminine acquiescence and he agreed.

'I hope so.'

'What kind of a party is this? I have heard that some are scandalous.'

'From whom?' asked the Marshall, sternly, 'This will not be _that_ kind of party! There will be cards and drinks. It is for men.'

'But will there be women there?' asked Amarilla, in a feeble (and false) display of anxiety.

'No, no, no,' laughed the Marshall, 'not those kinds of women. There may be some servants, but it will all be respectable, I promise. We are not going to lead your fiancé astray! After all there will be members of the church in attendance!'

'That does not reassure me in the least,' observed Amarilla dryly.

They both laughed.

Boo Dikka was running through the plan (such as it was) again, with Lewis.

'Tell me again,' said Lewis. Boo Dikka sighed,

'You are the first true son of the late King Jacques of France and therefore the rightful heir to the throne of France. You were sent to Britain as a small child, so that you would not be held hostage either by the clergy or the army. As a result of this, and your birth being kept secret, the wrong brother has been made King of France.'

'That's bad.'

'Yes it is, but what is worse is that the church has had the wrong brother kidnapped and replaced with the even wronger brother.'

'That is worse. Is "wronger" even a word? How is he "wronger?"'

'He is the youngest triplet, not the second.'

'Hold on a minute, who are the triplets?'

Boo Dikka counted to ten; slowly.

'The sons of the late King Jacques; you, Louis and Louie-Louie; you are the triplets.'

'Wow! Mum and Dad weren't very good at thinking of names. So these guys are my brothers; right?'

'Yes.'

'And they robbed my kingdom?'

'Yes.'

'I didn't know I was a King, I thought I was a sheep farmer.'

'You were meant to think that; it was safer.'

'I thought my Dad was a sheep farmer.'

'I know.'

'So, what's the plan again?'

Lewis regarded Boo Dikka hopefully, optimistically, with his large, trusting blue eyes glistening honestly; perhaps this time he really would get it. He had been raised to be a sheep farmer by his Mum and Dad, although as it turns out they weren't his Mum and Dad, and he knew how to farm sheep. Only now he wasn't going to farm sheep, he was going to be the King of France, because Boo Dikka and Caractacus Carruthers said so. He had to be the King of France because it was in something called 'The National Interest' (with capital letters, no less!) and his brothers had stolen it (the Throne of France that is, not 'The National Interest'). He didn't have any brothers before now, and now that he did, it turned out that they had stolen from him. It was a lot to take in!

'Tonight the wrong King will go to a party. At the party, our friend Beowulf will kidnap him and he will put you in his place. You will pretend to be called "Louis" which is French for "Lewis." This has to happen today because tomorrow you are getting married and the next day you have to decide whether to give the Holy Gambling money to the Pope or the army.'

'I'm getting married?'

'Yes, but that's not the important bit. The important bit is what you do with the money. You will –'

''I'm getting married? To who?'

'To whom, you mean. Amarilla De Cassiones, that nice girl you met last night.'

Lewis stopped to think.

'That's all right,' he said happily, 'I like her. Does she know?'

'Does she know what?'

'About the wedding?'

Boo Dikka had to think about this one.

'She knows about the wedding, but she thinks she will be marrying Louis or Louie-Louie. She doesn't know it will be you.'

'So you mean she's not fussy? There were some girls like that in the village. My Dad said they were-'

'I'm sure he did. She is quite fussy. She is going to marry the King of France and tomorrow that will be you. I imagine it will be a pleasant surprise for her that it is you; neither of your brothers are up to very much.'

'So how will I know what to do when I'm King? Kings have to decide things and make laws.'

'You will do very well. Remember Caractacus? He will come and advise you and you will do what he says. The first thing is that the money-'

'I'm sure we can get onto the money- but could you just talk me through the why I'm the King thing again.'

Boo Dikka resigned herself to the hardship of the diplomatic life. There were still a number of hours before Lewis would be King. She expected them to drag.

Dorf, nursing his broken nose, was consulting his spy.

'Eet ees a great beeg partee at thee Casino,' said Pedro, 'There weel be gambleeng, and dreenkeeng and eeteeng; but no funnee beesiness. Thee Cardinal 'ee say eet weel be like thees.'

'That's strange for the Cardinal,' said Dorf.

'Don't I know eet!' agreed Pedro, 'I 'av never known such a man. 'Ee ees a deesgrace! What my poor peegs 'av endured at 'ees 'ands I would not care to eemageene. But 'Ee say the partee ees not for 'eem, but for the Keeng and so no funnee beesiness. Just cards, dreenk and eets.'

'And this is at the Casino, which is above the cell where the first Louis is kept.'

'That ees what Norbert ees saying, and 'ee knows.'

'And the cell can be accessed through the kitchen?'

'That ees right.'

'You have done well,' pronounced Dorf, 'now all I need to know is where to hire a swift donkey cart for the getaway.'

'As in all theengs, Lord Dorf, I am your man. I 'ave the fastest, donkee cart on thee coast.'

'Then have it ready, outside the Casino, on the cliff path, just after midnight!'

He strode off to pass on the information to Beowulf.

Louie-Louie had cold feet. It was generally not very difficult to pretend to be his brother; he lived in a similar style and did similar things. He could do as he pleased and, when the state required it, he could turn up and, using his brother's name, decide to do whatever he chose. This was not hard; however, getting married, Louie-Louie felt, was a bit _personal._ He felt that if he were to get married, he really ought to do it as himself and not as someone else; however that was the plan and it would be very difficult to turn back from it now.

Louie-Louie knew that the marriage was not essential to the plan; it was merely a detail of his brother's life that he had inherited when he stole his brother's identity. He supposed that if he really wanted he could cancel the wedding. It would be odd, as royalty hardly ever cancelled, but it would not cause the plan to fail. He could still go to the Parliament the next day and make sure that the Pope and the Duke of Jutland got their money. That was all they cared about.

Eugene D'Orbergene entered the room. Louie-Louie was sitting in one of his staterooms, looking out over his huge estates.

'Majesty!' greeted D'Orbergene.

Louie-Louie nodded in return.

'I am pleased to find you, Highness. I can confirm that the arrangements for the party have been made. We have the poker room at the Casino. It should be a fine night!'

Again, Louie-Louie nodded.

'And tomorrow, your Grace, it is the big day! I have to say the filly has a fine figure and should prove a complimentary consort to your radiance!'

Louie-Louie nodded again and thought about this. Amarilla did have a fine figure.

'She is very beautiful,' he thought, 'and she will be mine.'

Although this made him slightly nervous; this was a pleasant thought. Louie-Louie was not really interested in the Cardinal's schemes, or the Pope or politics; he had said 'yes' to Mascarpone's proposal because he thought that it meant that _he_ would get more of what _he_ wanted. When he thought of Amarilla De Cassiones; he wanted. He felt his resolve stiffen; this was the point of being King.

'Yes,' he agreed,' she will do very well. Let us prepare for the party.'

Cardinal Bull was taking precautions. He had already checked the security of the Monastery (including the Casino and the hidden cell) thoroughly with Heinrich and Erich.

'I want you to be at your most alert,' he commanded, 'I deduce that tonight is the most likely night for that accursed, misbegotten piece of pond scum to attempt to rescue the prisoner and kidnap the King!'

'I think you will find that you mean that tonight is the most likely night for that accursed, misbegotten piece of pond scum to attempt to rescue the King and kidnap the imposter,' replied Heinrich, who liked to be precise.

Bull gave Heinrich the benefit of his glare.

'I meant what I said. I always mean what I say! If you wish to repeat your last foolish and treasonable remark, then, please do; I'm sure we have a torture cell somewhere in your size.'

Erich mumbled apologetically, although _he_ hadn't said anything.

'I apologise, your holiness; I merely meant in a purely _legal_ or _technical_ sense.'

'You made no sense at all!' roared Bull, 'Let me make myself clear; I expect that tonight, Beowulf, a despicable outlaw, will try to kidnap our beloved Louis from his stag party and replace him with his identical brother, who currently resides in the secret cell underneath the Monastery. You will stop him or die. Is that understood?'

Heinrich and Erich nodded vigorously to show how completely and earnestly they understood.

'There are extra guards on all stations. Security in and out of the Monastery is at its highest ever level. The Crown Guards surround the area and are checking all produce, vehicles and persons to ensure that Beowulf cannot enter. We have thought of every eventuality. The walls are greased so that he cannot climb in; all provisions have been delivered already, so no wagons can be used to sneak in; the old secret passage that ran into the library has been filled up; all the guards are men known to myself and Erich and we have checked all the guards- so it is impossible for him to pretend to be a guard. He cannot and will not get in! If he tries we will catch him.'

'Good,' agreed Bull reluctantly, 'he has used all those methods before. You have done a good job of planning.'

'But that is not all!' continued Heinrich, eager to annul the blunder of mentioning that the King was still (in a _legal_ or _technical_ sense) the King, 'We have even anticipated that he may have some means of entry and way of overpowering the guards that we are unaware of; and so, to be as thorough as possible we have a squadron of guards, with the fastest available donkey carts on hand to chase him down. Should he somehow gain entrance, overwhelm hugely superior forces and rescue the Ki- I mean the imposter and get away; we will still have the means available to foil his evil plan.'

In his enthusiasm for 'unbeatable security protocols' Heinrich high-fived Erich. This gesture left Bull looking both grim and confused.

'Make sure you do not fail,' he thundered, 'a great deal depends upon our success!'

After leaving her smiling Uncle on the pretext that she had to see about 'some issues concerning the dress', Amarilla had changed her clothes for the plainest outfit she possessed. She had then slipped out through the kitchen and raced down to the fairground. At the chicken tent she had by-passed Grandpa who was sleeping contentedly in the sun and had gone in to see Emsie, who, as usual, was preparing chicken.

'I need your help!' she said straight away.

'I don't suppose this would involve anything other than getting disguised as serving wenches to enable us to get into a certain, heavily guarded monastery, in order that we might attend a certain party and, while there, keep an eye out for a particular young man?' she asked.

'How did you guess?' asked Amarilla in amazement.

'I don't guess,' said Emsie, 'I'm perceptive and well informed.'

Naiman had spent most of the morning and some of the afternoon trying unsuccessfully to hire a fast donkey cart. It seemed that almost all the fast donkey carts in the South of France were already hired out. He had eventually had to settle for a mule that went by the unlikely name of Burro Rapido. This dubious beast he had managed to acquire from a farmer, of whom he was slightly suspicious; he was called Pedro.

''Ee weel run like thee weend, or at leest a strong breeze!' asserted his owner, 'And 'ee knows no fear!'

Naiman was less than delighted with the animal but decided that he would prove adequate. He was pleased with what he had learned from the encounter at the barn with Beowulf. Beowulf was a lot like Naiman (in Naiman's opinion) and this helped Naiman to plan against him. He had assumed that Beowulf would want to stay alive and it had been a revelation that he would have been happy to die, simply to frustrate Naiman. Naiman was certain that he would not risk that degree of closeness with Beowulf again; not unless he had a very significant advantage.

He sat astride Burro Rapido and looked down at the Monastery. The Monastery of Monte San Carlos sat, white bricked and splendid, on a lower hill that overlooked the azure sea beyond. A main road ran north from the monastery towards central France and a narrow track ran away along the cliffs. This track eventually ran down to the quaint village of Monte San Carlos and the harbour. It was his belief that Beowulf would retrieve Louis from the monastery and escape, in a fast donkey cart, along that winding cliff road. He was sure that Beowulf would imagine that the twists and turns along the treacherous and precipitous way would help him shake of pursuit. Naiman hoped that it would. He planned to wait with Burro Rapido at the top of the road, where he could keep an eye on the Monastery below. When Beowulf emerged he would be able to pursue him, run him off down the road and into the forest; that was where he would ensure his mission was successful. Then he would go into town and catch a boat from the harbour to make good his escape. He checked his bag of equipment. All was ready.

Chapter 9

In which Beowulf is forced to reflect in order to decide what he really does want to do. Roscow and Beowulf discuss issues of motivation, history and civilization. The chapter ends with a bump.

Beowulf had left the Queen's tent and gone a short distance into the woods, where he had found a place to sit, in a clearing. Gareth, who had accompanied him, had, in a rare sensitive moment, fallen asleep; possibly in respect of Beowulf's obviously dark frame of mind. There they had sat, unmoving, but watched; until almost an hour later Roscow entered the clearing. He looked at Beowulf and, reading the signs, sat down quietly next to him.

'Oi wonder if you want to tork aboyt it?' he asked.

'If you drop the ridiculous accent,' Beowulf replied.

Roscow nodded,

'You have to decide,' he observed, in his normal voice.

'Yes,' agreed Beowulf, 'Marshall Gney, who is my old friend, wants me to kidnap Louie-Louie and re-replace him with Louis; who might be the rightful King of France. This would empower him to stop the revenues from Holy Gambling going to the Pope and the Duke of Jutland; and would also enable him to build a strong France, that would be able to hold it's own against either Jutland or the Papacy.'

'Boo Dikka, Caractacus and the English want us to replace Louie-Louie with Lewis; whom we have to assume is an imposter. I can't really see him as the triplet of the Louis', can you?'

Roscow nodded and Beowulf continued,

'We have to assume that if Lewis gained the Throne that the revenues from Holy Gambling would either stay in France, as they would if Louis were King, or I think that it is much more likely that a portion of that revenue would fund a French Army and a larger portion of that money would be sequestered by the British; who seem to dream of building some kind of Empire. It would be hard to get Lewis accepted as King, bearing in mind that he speaks no French at all, and is probably unlikely to learn. It would mean hiding or disposing of both Louis'.'

'Adding to this confusion; it appears that the Duke of Jutland (my possible parent) wants to act against his own and the Pope's interest and have Gney's Louis returned as King. This is interesting. It seems to me that the only reason he would do that is to start a war between the Papacy and France over the Holy Gambling revenues; this war he would sit out and then he would dominate the survivors. For his strategy to succeed, it must appear that the French are alone in acting against the Papacy and Jutland. If I succeed in returning Louis to the Kingship it will appear that I have acted solely for Marshall Gney.'

'So what do we want?' queried Roscow. Beowulf thought.

'Both the British and the French have already paid us, and the Duke of Jutland has threatened us with death, if we don't do as he says; but all of that is a bit irrelevant. We have their money whatever we decide to do and we are always being threatened with death. I find it tiring.'

'It's like we don't have anything to gain either way,' said Roscow.

Beowulf laughed,

'Yes, we could just keep the money and do nothing. We could leave Louie-Louie on the Throne; the Pope would continue to get his money, there would be no war between France and the Papacy; the Duke of Jutland would not be able to pick on the wreckage, Britain would not develop towards it's empire and we would make a handsome profit for no risk!'

'Why don't we do that, then?' said Roscow.

Beowulf threw up his hands in frustration,

'Won't you ever learn?' he cried, in something approaching anguish, 'It is not our role on this planet to just turn up and do the easiest thing; to please our neighbours or turn a profit. That is not what our life is for! We are here to authentically, deeply and _meaningfully_ be our true selves and express that essential god-given (or whatever) nature through the media of our deeds, thoughts, actions and relationships! Here we are at a crossroad point in history, a unique moment; where empires and nations will be born or die, where life on earth may fundamentally change, or be set on the path to stay the same for a thousand years; and what questions does my friend Roscow ask himself at this critical juncture? Roscow asks, "Where is the money?"'

Beowulf angrily banged his fist on the log, where he was sitting.

'What point is there in that Roscow? What dreams, what desires, what morality reside in his lanky frame? How will History remember Roscow? Is he a villain, or a saviour? Wait! He's neither; he just wants his money!'

Beowulf fell silent, in what Roscow (quite rightly) considered a sulk. After a time Roscow, who really just wanted to know what he was going to do next from a practical point of view ventured a conciliatory,

'So, what questions should he ask?'

Beowulf brightened up and even stood up. He took on a declamatory stance. Roscow resigned himself to an hour or so of listening.

'There is a great deal to consider. Let us take the pros and cons of each case. If we honour our agreement with Marshall Gney and reinstall the rightful King; the Pope who is a base minion and the leader of a fell superstitious creed that has enslaved mankind for several hundred years will be angry; that is a desirable goal. The Marshall, who is our friend and ally, will be pleased; that is a minor benefit. The British, who think that we work for them will be annoyed; I'm sure that I can live with that disappointment. We will have done _right,_ we will have restored the son of the late King Jacques to his throne; we will have freed France for the French.; although none of that is very important it does have a nice ring to it and I am quite taken with the idea. "Beowulf the Just restores the true monarch", is a phrase I quite like the sound of, however...'

Beowulf broke off at this point and Roscow could see that his fists were clenching and unclenching,

'However, the Duke of Jutland desires this outcome, and he benefits from it! There will be a war between France and the Pope, which I am not at all adverse to; however, _he_ benefits from this action more than anyone else.'

'At least he doesn't have us assassinated,' countered Roscow, 'that's got to be worth something.'

'If you can trust that viper!' hissed Beowulf, 'I suspect his man is lying. I would lie in this instance. He may promise us life and gratitude and then simply have us killed. The major flaw to this otherwise virtuous course of action is the happiness it will bring that miserable vampire. Let us see if there is another option.'

Beowulf began to pace as he spoke,

'The British, in the person of Caractacus Carruthers, have asked us to remove both legitimate heirs to the French Throne and replace them with an imposter, one who incidentally looks nothing like he should look and cannot speak the language of his new country. That to me is the most interesting point; this is a wild, outlandish, hare-brained, ill-conceived, amateurish plot. To make it succeed, therefore is a challenge for a master of skill and deception; and what am I, if not a master of skill and deception? This is a consummate professional challenge and I am sorely tempted to rise to it!'

'Yet it is not just a technical challenge, to install the most ill-fitted usurper in history; there also exists a moral dimension. What are the consequences of our actions in this case?'

'The Pope will kill us, the Duke will kill us and the Marshall will kill us and the British might kill us, just to cover their tracks,' said Roscow.

'Minor difficulties, easily overcome!' snapped Beowulf irritably, 'I am looking at the long term consequences. As a result of this action, France will not develop as an independent state; it will become something of a British acquisition. This might speed the British in their ambition to found an empire. I can't, having met the British, think that it would be a good idea for them to rule anybody else; I mean they are obviously woad-wearing, beer bingeing illiterates with no sense or culture. Fun though it might be to appal the civilised nations of the world, I would be reluctant to advance their cause, as I suspect that if they came into any kind of power, they would certainly use it to try and make everyone like them; proud, spiteful and stuck up.'

'That wouldn't be because the Queen turned you down last night, would it?' asked Roscow, innocently.

Beowulf glared,

'It's all personal to you, Roscow, isn't it? No sense of history or civilization! Of course that has nothing to do with it. I was not turned down, anyway, I merely deferred the moment of consummation until another day. I was not trying too hard.'

Roscow stifled a laugh, which provoked Beowulf further,

'Also, if Lewis ascends to the Throne, the Holy Gambling Revenues will disappear, but at the behest of the British, not the French. This would strengthen the shaky alliance between, Jutland and the Papacy and so could result in an all out war, which our two greatest enemies would surely win.'

'It is an almost impossible choice,' concluded Beowulf.

'Yes, if we bring in Louis, which is a result we like, because it's _right;_ that makes your Dad happy and we don't want that. If we bring in Lewis, which we like because it's impossible, the civilised world has to put up with Britain and it also makes your Dad happy. Despite getting paid three times it looks like a lose-lose situation.'

They both sat on the log in a glum silence.

'That's politics,' said Beowulf.

'What about doing nothing?' asked Roscow, 'Just take the money and walk away. That leaves Louie-Louie as the King; no war with the Pope, no British Empire, only everybody in the world trying to kill us!'

'That isn't a bad idea,' agreed Beowulf, 'and we might even be able to tell the Pope that we did it for him. He's vain enough to believe such rubbish. We might even get paid again! But...'

Beowulf fell to thinking again. At length he continued,

'The best thing about doing nothing is that it annoys the Duke and frustrates both him and the British. The down side is that we leave the French paying the Papacy to lord it over them for the next millennium; now I quite admit to being, what the church calls " a bad man" but I wouldn't want a crime of that enormity on my conscience!'

'Also, we couldn't just leave with all the Louis' lying around. If we don't manipulate the situation someone else will. Roscow, old friend, we are going to have to decide what to do and then we will set history in motion!'

Beowulf stood up.

'What are we going to do then?' asked Roscow.

'I don't know, but we need to get ready for the party or we will be late!'

'How are you going to get in?' asked Roscow, 'the Monastery is impregnable.'

'That I do know,' Beowulf said with satisfaction, 'I worked that out ages ago! If only moral problems were as easy as logistics!'

They set off back to the fairground.

Gretza the Angel, who had been watching, through the trees, cursed in frustration. She needed to know which way Beowulf would act. If she could not learn his plans then she could not complete her mission. From behind her she heard the worrying sound of a large body coming swiftly towards the through the bushes.

'Probably the ztupid dog,' she thought. She turned around to ward it off and was shocked to see Grendel's mother towering over her. Before Gretza the Angel could move a huge Troll fist hit her with a crunching uppercut. Gretza the Angel sank into the bushes, almost instantaneously losing consciousness. Just before the darkness took her she heard the old Troll's voice,

'This time I will have my vengeance!'

Chapter 10

King Louis' stag party begins. Extra help arrives in the kitchens. Knowledge of certain indiscretions proves useful to Dorf in getting to where he wants to go. There is a certain amount of cheating. Eugene D'Orbergene makes fool of himself and, in an unexpected manner, Beowulf joins the party.

Madame Gertrude Frappedelapins was the undisputed and absolute ruler of the kitchens that serviced the Holy Gambling rooms at the Monastery of Monte San Carlos. Brother Dominic le Brunours was nominally and notionally in charge; as was only right and proper in a Monastery, but in all practical matters Mme Frappedelapins reigned supreme. This happy arrangement allowed the elderly Brother Dominic to sleep peacefully and gratefully in his office, while Mme Frappedelapins was able to run things _properly_. It was she alone who decided what was on, or off the menu; it was her regimen of cleaning and preparation that set the standard for behaviour in the kitchen; and she, and only she who was allowed any say in the hiring, firing and allocation of the staff. It was therefore a huge surprise to her, that early in the evening of the Royal Stag Party, which was one of the most significant events in the history of the Monastery kitchen, she was disturbed from her lengthy (and necessary) preparations by Brother Simone, the underchef.

'Madame Chef...' the young man approached her nervously, for although Mme Frappedelapins was a slightly built lady, who stood slightly under a metre and a quarter tall, she was amply endowed with the self esteem, temper, vitriol and vocabulary of the master chef that she was. She turned to him slowly, favouring him with the expression that her staff knew as 'the icy glare',

'Is the parsley picked and prepared?' she asked quietly.

Brother Simone made to answer, but before he could, she had moved on,

'Are all the girolles cleaned? Are they individually prepared, hand dried and placed in neat, little lines like I like?'

She paused to allow him to try to squeeze in an answer. As soon as he opened his mouth she continued,

'Are the mussels debearded? Are the potatoes turned and sliced into perfect dodecahedrons?'

Brother Simone had given up trying to answer and was just waiting with his mouth slightly open, (this was a practical measure which he employed to enable him to gain a head start in speaking, in the unlikely event of Madame Chef pausing for long enough to actually allow him to interject.)

'I suspect,' she continued with rising tone, pace and venom, 'that the answer to these simple questions is "no." Yet that should not be the answer; the answer to these simple questions, if you are thinking of disturbing me when I am working (and, of course I am working, for being a great chef is nothing but work, work, work!) should be a simple, straightforward, resounding, "Yes Madame Chef, everything is as it should be", but it is not, is it? _Is it, Brother Simone_? No, it is not, for while I am working, while I am labouring to create the true culinary dream, while I struggle to raise the standards of this kitchen to make it fit for the great work I do, there are those in this kitchen who are standing uselessly by, with their mouths hanging open while ALL THE WORK HAS STILL TO BE DONE!'

At this point, having reached the peak of her crescendo, she shifted gears and began to sob,

'Why is it that I and I alone, appreciate what is is needed here? I have a dream. I have the greatest desire to make the most beautiful food, but all the time I am let down. I am sabotaged, I am betrayed'

Clearly Mme Frappedelapins liked the word 'betrayed' and creatively she used this as the theme for the next section of her monologue,

'Yes, I am betrayed! I am abused by the lazy farmers who send their inadequate produce, the foolish monks who cannot see that the kitchen is properly equipped and supplied so that a genius such as I can work. Here I remain; unappreciated by the clods that eat my food like horses in a field, never valuing the great _art_ that is put before them daily; betrayed, yes!'

She paused and then treated Brother Simone, to the expression known as 'the hot glare' as she reached a dramatic conclusion, mixing the themes that she had earlier explored to create a virtuoso, cacophonous and thoroughly satisfying (at least to her) finale,

'These betrayals I accept, I have to accept them, I have no choice, I am a slave to my art; but here, in my own kitchen, from my own staff, from those I have picked, and trained, and nurtured, and loved, (as a mother loves her children) must I accept betrayal and failure from such as these? This is the cruellest cut; when so much needs to be done, when so much that must be done is undone, when there is so very little time and each moment is precious in pursuing that dream, must my time be wasted by such as you?'

There was a silence. Brother Simone realised too late that this had been the moment when he was required to speak.

'Spit it out! I have not got all day to spend waiting for you to gabble your foolish business!'

'There are girls here,' said Brother Simone, 'they want to serve the food.'

This was irregular. There were girls who served the food, but they were already here. Mme Frappedelapins was concerned,

'Bring them here, to me; now!' she commanded. Simone scuttled off and swiftly returned with Amarilla and Emsie. Mme Chef was suspicious; she dismissed Simone,

'Parsley, Mushrooms, Mussels, Potatoes; strive always for perfection!'

'Yes, Madame Chef.'

She scrutinised the girls, Amarilla thought that she might get to speak, but she was too slow; Mme Frappedelapins struck like a snake,

'Neither of you were invited. Neither of you work here.'

She pointed at Emsie,

'You have experience in food preparation, but at a level so inferior to my own that I cannot credit that your produce is actually consumed by patrons.'

She pointed at Amarilla,

'And you? You have never held a ladle in anger. You are not a servant. You are an imposter, a spy. You are probably here with your little friend to steal my recipes, my ideas my methods. I shall have you thrown out, or possibly, fed to the dogs!'

She gathered her breath to shout for her attendants; but Amarilla could speak swiftly when she wanted to,

'You are right Madame. Of course you are right! We are not who we appear to be and it was very foolish for us to try to trick one of your experience, competence...'

'Magnificence!' helped out Emsie.

'Yes,' agreed Amarilla, 'that is not too strong a word. We should have straight away explained our problem and thrown ourselves on your mercy. You see Madame, we, I mean I, really need your help!'

'And why would I help two girls?' asked Mme Frappedelapins, not quite as belligerently. Amarilla's flattery had begun to work.

'Because, tomorrow she becomes the Queen of France!' said Emsie.

Mme Frappedelapins sensed that there could be a troublesome situation developing.

'So, what is it that you want? Explain to me. Why would the Queen of France want to serve food; even the exemplary output of my kitchens?'

Amarilla went blank; she was not prepared to explain about the fake King and trying to keep an eye on any exchanges and she couldn't think of anything else to say. She looked hopefully at Emsie,

'Summarise?' she pleaded.

'Mme Chef,' said Emsie instantly, 'this is the lady Amarilla De Cassiones. She is to marry the King tomorrow, but she suspects that he is having an affair. I am sure that this is not so, but I cannot convince her. So, I said to her, "let us go and spy on him, during his stag night and you will see what a fine an honest man he is. Then you will be able to marry him with a happy heart in the morning." So we came here, to try and pass ourselves off as serving girls, so that my friend, this beautiful lady, may know peace of mind once more and look forward to her marriage. Please help her Mme Chef. I fear for her sanity if her doubts are not assuaged!'

Amarilla rolled her eyes to try to give the impression of a woman whose sanity might be feared for,

'It's all true!' she agreed, 'that's it!'

Mme Frappedelapins considered,

'It is for a romantic reason, that you practice this deception; an affair of the heart?'

Emsie and Amarilla nodded.

'Then I must help you! Romance is the basis of art; almost as much as fresh local produce and unshakeable technique. I am an artist; I am an artist of the kitchen. Music is not the food of love: _food_ is the food of love! If you must spy on your boyfriend, then I must help you. Follow me, you will need to get changed and be warned; although I am willing to help you; if you drop any of my dishes then I will hit you with a ladle, Queen of France or not. That is fair?'

The girls agreed that this did indeed sound fair and followed Mme Chef to prepare.

The British delegation to the stag party had arrived and this presented a pair of problems. Firstly; as a delegation from a barbaric and degenerate nation, they had not been invited at all, and, secondly; one of them was a woman. Heinrich's solution to both problems was the same: not to let them in.

Boo Dikka, Dorf, Caractacus Carruthers (who had arrived late in the afternoon) and Lewis (who was still disguised as a servant) were giving him and his guards a most uncomfortable few minutes.

'Let us in, you jumped up watchman. The Queen needs to party!' shouted Dorf, whose broken nose and rough appearance were not helping the case for admittance.

'If your name is not on the guest list, then you are not coming in,' he explained, 'I don't care if you are the Princess of Patagonia, or the Duchess of Dortmund, if you are not invited by his Royal Majesty King Louis, then you are not coming in!'

Boo Dikka was used to surly servants; after all, she came from Britain.

'I am used to surly servants, after all I come from Britain,' she exclaimed, 'but you, sir, are beyond the pale! I am not your Princess of Patagonia, nor your Duchess of Dortmund, I am the Queen of the Britons, and I, and my retinue have been invited by the lawful monarch of France, through his great esteemed friend and colleague Cardinal Mascarpone!'

'I very much doubt that the Cardinal is acquainted with anyone from a primitive island where the people paint themselves blue as preparation for "a good night out!"' said Heinrich, offensively.

Dorf squared up with the intention of hitting Heinrich, but was restrained by Caractacus and Lewis. He had to content himself with shouting,

'Send for him then, you insolent flunkey! Then you will be apologising to my gracious Queen!'

'It is, how he says it is,' said Boo Dikka politely, 'why don't you get him and see. No one wants anyone to put an axe in anyone, but we are Britons abroad and this is a party.'

She winked at Heinrich, which further upset him.

'All right,' he agreed, 'If the Cardinal vouches for you, you may come in-'

'And if not,' agreed Boo Dikka, 'we will go quietly.'

'No axes?'

'Not even a little dagger.'

'Three Queens!' said Cardinal Mascarpone, happily turning over his cards.

'Beats me,' said Eugene D'Orbergene, throwing his hand in.

'Three Kings!' said Louie-Louie, 'How apt. I think that I will be taking this hand.'

'Not against a properly prepared military- minded Marshall,' said Marshall Gney, 'I have a full house, threes over twos.' He smiled at Cardinal Bull, 'Can you beat that, your Holiness?'

'Only through the power of prayer, continual practice and great skill,' laughed the scarlet clergyman, 'four fours! I believe I win again!'

Eugene D'Orbergene was sure that Bull was cheating. He knew that he himself was cheating and he was confident that Marshall Gney always cheated; there were great opportunities to play cards with cheats in the army. He was fairly sure that the house dealer was cheating on behalf of the King; he just wasn't as good at cheating as the army and the clergy. The gaming was becoming expensive and D'Orbergene was beginning to think it would be cheaper to lose honestly rather than to try and win dishonestly in such company. At least the drink was good, and he had hopes that the serving girls would be attractive, when, at last the food arrived. His next hand arrived, a three and a seven. At least this was not going to cost him much. While folding, he noticed that one of the guards, after a discreet word, had escorted Cardinal Mascarpone away.

'Good riddance!' he thought. He was not at all fond of the Cardinal, who seemed to be a most unpredictable drunk. D'Orbergene was not any fonder of Cardinal Bull and was thankful that, as an older son, he had been forced to join the Army and not the Church.

'The buffet is now available,' called out one of the Casino attendants. D'Orbergene looked up, pleased to see that some pretty girls were coming into an ante room that adjoined the games room. They were bringing in trays and plates piled with food. He sat back in his chair to get a better look at the talent.

'Not bad,' he thought to himself. Then he sat up with a start; the girl at the back, with the brown hair, looked just like Amarilla De Cassiones. Quizzically he looked down at his glass; had he drunk too much already? Surely that couldn't be right? He waved the dealer away as the next hand was dealt,

'Count me out while I get some food.'

He set off to investigate.

'I'll meet you, on the road outside the Monastery, just after midnight, with all three Princes,' asserted Beowulf calmly as he parted from Roscow and Gareth.

'If you say so,' agreed Roscow, 'although I still don't see how. I don't even know how you're going to get in, let alone get out with three princes. Look at the place!'

Roscow gestured down the slope towards the Monastery. It was heavily fortified and there were obviously many, many guards patrolling the doorways, walkways and courtyards.

'And they are sure to know that you're coming.'

'I'm counting on that,' said Beowulf.

'If you don't come back, do I get to keep the money?' he asked.

'If you can outrun the armies of the Pope, the Duke of Jutland, the Marshall of France and the Queen of Britain without me,' offered Beowulf cheerfully.

'Good luck to you, then,' said Roscow.

'Thank you,' replied Beowulf and set off down the slope.

Cardinal Mascarpone was in the lobby, looking blankly at the Britons.

'I don't know these people. I mean, I know who they are; you can't avoid that, but "know them?" as in "meet with them in a social sense?" I don't think so. Invite them on the King's behalf to a select gathering? I really don't think that's likely! I'm sure I would have remembered saying something like, "provincial barbarians from the bog filled isle, would you care to join His Majesty Louis the King of France at an exclusive party to celebrate his wedding?" and do you know what? I don't!'

Mascarpone turned to go and Heinrich, delighted with the outcome, began to shepherd the Britons to the door.

'There you have it. The Cardinal does not know you; he does not want to know you. He hasn't invited you and now, my blue stained friends, it's time to go.'

Dorf ground obstinately to a halt and said in a very loud voice.

'I am not at all blue stained and I don't think the Cardinal remembers everything he says and does when he has had a drink!'

'Come on, sir,' said a guard, 'time to go.'

Something in Dorf's voice caught the Cardinal's ear and gave him a moment of inexplicable anxiety; had he forgotten something?

As the guards pushed, Dorf stood his ground and uttered an enormous 'Oink!'

Then he spoke again,

'I'm sure the Holy Father is forgetting some of the things he has said and done when he's had a few drinks. Oink, oink!'

Mascarpone felt a shiver of fear. There were things that would be best not mentioned, particularly around the King and Cardinal Bull.

'Wait!' he said, 'I think I may have spoken with this man. Allow us a word.'

The guards backed off and Mascarpone approached Dorf.

'My freend Pedro, ee keeps thee leettle peegs,' Dorf hissed, so that only Mascarpone could hear, 'If me and my friends are not invited to the party, then Cardinal Bull will be shortly hearing from a very distressed farmer about the nocturnal activities of a certain person from the Church. I don't think he will believe that you "onlee wanted to be thee beeg bad wolf", do you?'

Dorf smiled, the Cardinal gulped. The guards stood on tenterhooks, not knowing which way the situation was going to turn. Eventually Mascarpone managed to give a weak smile,

'It is as the man says; I did invite them and then I forgot. How foolish of me! Please Captain let in these fine people. I am so glad you were able to come. Let me run ahead and let his Majesty know that you have arrived.'

He set off down the hallway and then turned back and whispered to Dorf,

'Not a word to anyone.'

'Oink! I mean, cross my heart, not a word, honest,' agreed Dorf.

Amarilla felt a warm hand on her shoulder and turned to find herself face to face with D'Orbergene. He smiled a greasy smile and kept his hand on her shoulder,

'Why, you are a pretty little thing! I am surprised to find you working in the Monastery kitchen.'

'I am sorry Monsieur, I am only meant to serve the food,' said Amarilla.

'How tasty!' said D'Orbergene, 'I think you are doing it most beautifully. I would say that I have never had such "high class" service. What's your secret, why are you here?'

He retained his hold on her shoulder. Amarilla tried to twist away but could not do this without causing a disturbance.

'I think, Mademoiselle Amarilla De Cassiones, for it definitely is you, that things stand like this; last night, at dinner, you could not keep your eyes off me. I know this, as I am a very handsome man. Almost irresistible, I've been told; and as such, you could not resist me. I am sure you spent a sleepless night, thinking about what you were missing and then hit upon the idea of posing as a serving girl here in order to seduce me and know one night of true and absolute passion before surrendering yourself to an unsatisfactory marriage of convenience on the morrow.'

He paused to suck in a gasp of air before continuing in an oily undertone,

'I am right, am I not? I usually am. The moment I saw you see me, I knew. I thought "the sparks are flying between us, this will be a great affaire."'

Amarilla was dumbfounded. She was very disappointed that her disguise had been so easily seen through and she knew that if she were to fool Louie-Louie, Bull and Mascarpone she would need to change something quickly; but that was not the first problem! Here she was cornered by a lecherous idiot who could ruin her plan. As Amarilla De Cassiones, she wanted to slap his "irresistible" face and then kick him hard; however as a servant such a move was unthinkable. She looked again at his odious, lust filled face and suddenly she had a plan. She half turned and spoke very quietly, but as if she was in the grip of some deep emotion, taking advantage of a commotion that seemed to be taking place in the gambling room.

'Sir, it is as you said. Since I saw you last night I have been able to think of nothing else. Please, please do not give me away. I had to see you. Please let me go now, but in ten minutes follow down the hallway to the kitchen and I will meet you in the second storeroom. You will recognise it as it is where they keep the meat.'

Amarilla slipped out of his grasp.

'Come in ten minutes, my love' she whispered and then was gone.

D'Orbergene smiled a huge, ugly self satisfied smirk and said to himself, 'Eugene, you are the man! Women just can't resist you! Even the King's fiancé can't help but throw herself at your feet. You are as charming as you are gorgeous!'

He decided that he should get in a hand or two of cards in before he 'disappeared for a bit.'

He went back into the gambling room where there seemed to be a few more people than there had been a few minutes ago.

Outside Beowulf had walked up the long drive to the Monastery gate. The guards standing outside the steel bound door watched him climb up the steps and knock loudly.

'Who is it, out there?' shouted Heinrich through the metal grille.

'It's me, Beowulf,' said Beowulf, 'I've come to kidnap the fake King of France and replace him with his brother.'

Mascarpone had rushed into the gambling room and announced the Britons' arrival.

'Majesty, Cardinal, Marshall, I am very happy to present Boo Dikka, the Queen of Britain and her advisors Dorf and Caractacus.'

He then saw that Lewis had followed,

'Oh, and this is her servant. We are so lucky that they were able to come at such short notice!'

The room went very quiet, for a moment and then exploded in angry noise.

'Why are they here?'

'Who let them in?'

'What do you mean, lucky?'

Cardinal Mascarpone spread his hands to indicate that he could answer all questions, while uttering a silent prayer that, somehow, he could gloss over this social disaster.

'I distinctly remember you telling me that the Pope was concerned about the growth of British influence,' Mascarpone addressed Bull, who was not prepared to discuss Papal foreign policy in public.

'So I thought that what the Holy Father, God bless Him, would want to happen, is for the new British rulers to be influenced by an established, civilised, cultured nation; such as France. This desire to please His Holiness and follow his wishes in all things required me to invite our new friends.'

As no one was exactly sure what the view of the Pope regarding the Britons was and the French were suitably flattered in Mascarpone's introduction, no one could summon the stern resolve required to immediately throw the Britons out. In that moment, they moved in.

'I say; is that poker?' asked Caractacus, 'I understand the principles, but have never actually played; jolly interesting!'

'I prefer black jack,' said Dorf mournfully. Both the Queen's advisors were quick to take their seats.

The Queen had remained standing,

'I understand that congratulations are required; your Highness is betrothed to a wonderful girl. We are honoured to be invited to your party.'

'Thank you, sit down,' was all that Louie-Louie could manage, 'you are very welcome.'

'I hope you've brought a lot of gold,' grumbled Marshall Gney.

The dealer dealt.

'I need a better disguise!' hissed Amarilla to Emsie in the kitchen, 'That vile lecher D'Orbergene recognised me and the only way I could think to keep him quiet was to arrange to meet him in the meat store.'

Emsie swore quietly,

'I can't see how we can disguise you more. You just look like you do!'

'I think I can help here,' whispered Mme Frappedelapins, who appeared to have been listening. '

As for the lecher; I can take care of him as well. You must be able to keep your eye on your true love!'

'Yes,' agreed Amarilla, 'what are we going to do?'

'A sort of makeover, but with food products,' replied Mme Frappedelapins.

The guards had surrounded Beowulf. They had searched him for weapons and tied his hands behind his back.

'Now we have caught you!' shouted Heinrich, who was too excited to realise that he was merely stating the obvious, 'You are captured. We have captured you. You are our prisoner!'

'Yes,' agreed Beowulf, 'I am captured, you have captured me and I am your captive. I am in your power; you hold my life in your hands. You have succeeded where all others have failed. I am at your mercy. I am your prisoner; do we need to go on?'

'I do not understand why you seem indifferent. You are our prisoner. We will kill you. I hope in some vile and painful way. You should be afraid!'

'Oh, I am. I'm terribly afraid,' said Beowulf. This greatly angered Heinrich who shouted,

'He thinks he can laugh at us, but he cannot laugh at us, we will show him.' He struck Beowulf hard across the face.

'Now you will fear me.'

Beowulf recoiled from the blow and took his time to reply.

'Yes, that made me very afraid.'

Heinrich felt as if he were losing face in front of the guards.

Take him to the Cardinal,' he shouted, 'take him to Bull!'

The guards, none too gently, led Beowulf down the hallway towards the Gambling Room.

'Have I got this right? Aces are higher than Kings, even though Kings rule the Kingdoms and Kings are higher than Queens? Well, that seems obvious, except in Britain. In Britain the Queens should beat the Kings! Why aren't there any princesses? Who do the Jacks, or should they be "Jacques" get to marry? How is the Royal line propagated?'

Caractacus appeared to be having difficulties with the basics of poker,

'I can understand that a pair is two of a kind, but how is the house full if you only have three of one thing and two of another. Why is that better than a straight? All the numbers are in the right order in a straight? We should be encouraging the correct use of mathematics.'

'Just play,' growled Bull, who was thinking how much he would enjoy killing Mascarpone for this social disaster. He was finding it harder to cheat with the extra players around the table, although the British players didn't appear to need cheating, they simply seemed to have no idea how to play.

'This is a very enjoyable activity,' said Boo Dikka, engaging Louie-Louie, 'an impressively civilised way to spend the night before your wedding.'

'Thank you,' said Louie-Louie uncertainly, 'Usually there is a lot of drinking on these nights. Sometimes things can get a bit out of hand.'

'I hope so!' said Dorf, who had already collected a number of drinks and was doing little to reassure the French, who thought that they may have just invited in a bunch of savages.

'What do they do in your country?' asked Louie-Louie politely.

'In my country,' replied Boo Dikka proudly, 'a week before a man is due to marry, he and his friends must make a sacred journey to the coast of our island. There they must stay, until the man has consumed his own weight several times over in alcohol. He and his friends must sing the sacred chants of our islands over and over again until the tribesmen who live by the coast can endure their drunken wailings no longer. At that point the man must perform some kind of challenge that he is neither fit nor sober enough to achieve. After he has catastrophically and, hopefully painfully, failed to achieve this he may return to his own village and wed.'

'Barbarians!' observed Bull.

'Is that so?' Louie-Louie was beginning to regret his politeness,

'It is an improvement on the Old Ways,' said Boo Dikka.

'The Old Ways?' asked Louie-Louie fearfully.

'In the old days...' began Boo Dikka, but before she could further appal the French Monarch with the barbarous customs of Britain, Heinrich noisily entered the gambling room and shouted,

'We have captured Beowulf!'

Eugene D'Orbergene missed this moment of triumph as he had just sneaked out towards the kitchen area, where he hoped an amorous encounter with Amarilla awaited him. He slunk noiselessly down the corridor until he identified the door that was most likely to be the door to the meat store. He knocked, discreetly.

'Amarilla, it is I, Eugene D'Orbergene; I have come!'

From behind the door he heard the sound of movement and then heard Amarilla's voice,

'Eugene! I have been waiting for this moment! Come in!'

D'Orbergene needed no second asking and immediately pushed the door open and stepped inside. As he entered (swiftly, to avoid detection), D'Orbergene noticed that the room was unexpectedly dark; when the door closed behind him, he realised that it was completely dark.

'Amarilla,' he whispered, 'I am here. Where are you?'

'Eugene!' she replied, 'I am here, at the back of the room, come to me!'

D'Orbergene began to pick his way slowly through the darkness. He noticed, with disgust that he was making his way through a number of hanging animal carcasses; however he was sure his journey would be worthwhile and so he pressed on.

'You are nearly there!' he heard, he also thought he heard more movement and he was worried that there seemed to be sounds from more than one person in the blackness. 'Reach out to me, Eugene!'

He reached out. As he did so he felt something brush against his leg and a sharp shove in the back. He fell with a muffled shout and then heard a door bang.

'I will be back in a little while, Eugene,' he heard Amarilla say. Then he heard footsteps going away and giggling. He was sure that he heard two different female voices. The first whispered,

'Oh Eugene, you will be so happy in my cupboard.'

The second said in a low voice, 'That will take care of him girls. Now we will go to the kitchen to sort out your disguise.'

D'Orbergene carefully picked himself up.

'Amarilla,' he whispered, 'Are you out there?'

There was no reply. He was very angry and worried. What had happened? Had someone taken Amarilla? He tried to find his way back to the door, but the room seemed to have become a lot smaller than he remembered it. He groped around in the darkness and found three stone walls, all within an arms' length. The other wall was made of wood, like some kind of heavy door. It was not the door he remembered from entering the meat store. He was at a loss to explain how this transformation had occurred. It was well beyond his meagre mental processes to imagine that Amarilla could have lured him into a store cupboard and then locked him inside; however, with the aid of Emsie (the trip) and Mme Frappedelapins (the shove) that was exactly what had happened.

'Amarilla, Amarilla!' he whispered, in case someone else could overhear, 'I'm still here!'

'And that is where you will remain!' thought Amarilla, with a degree of satisfaction as she made her way out of the meat store and followed Mme Frappedelapins into the kitchen.

'Sit,' ordered Mme Frappedelapins and gestured to a low stool in a corner of the kitchen. Amarilla sat.

'The trouble with your disguise is that it is no disguise at all. You have just put on some cheap clothes and you think that makes you look like a poor girl. That is not the case; you just look like yourself in another girl's clothes. I will help you!'

First Mme Frappedelapins took Amarilla's long, straight, dark hair and, having dipped her hand into a large stockpot, smeared a brown and viscous liquid through it. Next she twisted and teased the hair, until its natural shape had quite disappeared.

'Good,' she observed.

Next she grabbed a handful of soot from out of the corner of the chimney and began to artfully smear this across Amarilla's face. The result was frightful and would have greatly upset Amarilla, had she been able to see it.

'Now,' said Mme Frappedelapins to Emsie, 'just clean her up. You won't be able too, but you will at least make her almost presentable. No one will think that she is Amarilla De Cassiones, looking like that!'

Emsie began to do as she was told and Mme Frappedelapins returned to running the kitchen.

'Hurry up!' she shouted at the girls, there is more food to serve and I don't want it going cold while you two waste your time prettifying yourselves!'

'You have captured Beowulf?' asked Bull incredulously, 'How did you achieve this?'

'Well done!' said Louie-Louie, 'That is an impressive achievement.'

Both were too full of enthusiasm for Heinrich's victory to notice the looks of surprise and concern on the faces of the British party and Marshall Gney. They had put their faith in Beowulf and he had failed! The Marshall thought that a tactical withdrawal might be necessary; there was no telling what Beowulf might say about who had hired him to infiltrate the monastery. The British delegation were all having similar thoughts, however there was no easy way to leave the party, particularly not just at the moment that something really noteworthy had occurred. They would just have to sit it out.

Heinrich did not really want to confess that Beowulf had turned up at the front door, knocked and announced himself and so he was quite prepared to exaggerate, a little, regarding the circumstances of the capture.

'He was trying to infiltrate the hall when I spotted him. I quickly called for the guards to aid me in pursuit, in order to apprehend the felon. He tried to make a break for it when he saw us coming, but having planned for this eventuality, I initiated a subtle pincer movement, while leaving sufficient guards to protect the Royal person. We were able to trap and apprehend him before he was able to assault the King or make good his escape. We have him now, sir!'

'Good job, Captain!' exclaimed Louie-Louie, 'Bring him in. Let's have a look at him.'

'Do you think that is wise?' asked Cardinal Bull, who was well aware of many stories of Beowulf tricking his adversaries.

'Why not?' asked Louie-Louie, 'What harm can he possibly do? Heinrich and his highly professional guards have him defeated and outnumbered. Let us take a look at this terrible adversary, shall we?'

Heinrich, who was still glowing with pride, was more than happy to bring his prisoner in. He went off to fetch him, leaving the others to discuss this surprising turn of events.

'This is a most unexpected development,' said Marshall Gney, as straightforwardly as he could manage, 'what could Beowulf be doing in this part of the world? The last I knew he was in King Lars' land, far to the north.'

'Yes, it is interesting, isn't it?' replied Bull, 'Although I believe his presence here is not entirely unexpected.'

He smiled wolfishly at Marshall Gney and continued,

'There has been intelligence that Beowulf would come to France. We believe that he is acting on the orders of either a traitor in our own camp or else in the employ of a foreign power. We are hoping that he is able to supply us with the names of his paymasters. Our information is that he is attempting to assassinate or kidnap our beloved King Louis on the eve of his wedding. Thankfully this seems to have been prevented; when we have the names of his accomplices and employer we will be able to seek them out for in order to ensure that appropriate retribution takes place.'

The Marshall, Dorf and Boo Dikka all lost a bit of colour at this announcement. Caractacus however had continued his poker discussion, apparently unmoved by the excitement of the news.

'There are no clergy cards, either; although there is a Bishop in the game of chess. Do any of you play chess?'

'I think this great news calls for a drink!' declared Cardinal Mascarpone, refilling his glass from a bottle. Dorf, Boo Dikka and Gney all seconded this sentiment and helped themselves.

Louie-Louie anxiously eyed the doorway; after all, it was him that the famous Beowulf was coming to kill or kidnap. He was beginning to regret having him brought in; however he felt it would be un-Kingly to change his mind just because he was afraid.

'We thank you, Cardinal, for your diligence in anticipating threats to our Royal Person. It is reassuring to know that we are well prepared and protected. Do you think that it is traitors or foreigners who are behind the plot?'

'Traitors!' asserted Boo Dikka and Dorf.

'Foreigners!' said the Marshall.

Both parties regarded each other uneasily and wondered how much each knew about the others' plans. At this point Heinrich returned.

'I am bringing the prisoner now,' he said, 'he has some wounds that were caused in the struggle to apprehend him.'

'Well done!' said Bull, 'I'm so glad you were able to take him alive.

Four heavily armoured guards dragged Beowulf in. This was unnecessary, as Beowulf was offering no resistance. The guards had tied his hands and feet together and this made it hard for him to obey commands such as 'come with us.'

'Evening!' said Beowulf cheerfully, when the guards had eventually pulled him in and pushed him to the floor.

Louie-Louie was shocked at how small Beowulf was. He was almost _tiny,_ a round little, bald man with a bruised face and a cut on his head, was what he thought. How could he be so dangerous?

Bull stood up and walked over to Beowulf who had nearly pulled himself up to a kneeling position.

'Cardinal Bull!' he grinned. The Cardinal launched a huge kick at the small man's ribs, and, as Beowulf made no move to block or evade the blow it sent him floundering backwards. Louie-Louie was sure that he heard a cracking sound. He was sure it was a rib cracking.

'Beowulf!' spat the Cardinal, 'We know why you are here. We know you came to harm our beloved King Louis. Your evil plans are thwarted; death and torture await you. We look forward to finding out the names of those who instigated your foul plot. Confess and we could offer you the mercy of a speedy death. We have skilled torturers ready to wring your secrets from you.'

Louie-Louie was not used to violence and was shocked by Bull's aggression. He was also shocked by the huge size difference between the massive scarlet clad Cardinal and the small man on the floor.

'Yes, Beowulf,' he added, 'it would be best for you to tell us all.'

Beowulf appeared to consider this, while slowly working himself up into a kneeling position again. He looked very weak and ill. He seemed to sway slightly and to having difficulty holding himself upright.

'Might I speak?' he croaked and then he fell backwards.

'Get him up,' said Louie-Louie. The guards picked him up and sat him on a chair. He seemed to be going in and out of consciousness.

'Give him a drink.'

One of the guards splashed some drink on Beowulf's face.

'Mm...thanks,' he said and then appeared to be more alert.

'Tell us why you are here,' commanded Louie-Louie. He stared at Beowulf, who returned his stare with his dark, almost black eyes.

'Of course,' said Beowulf, 'I came here tonight to see you.'

'We know this!' shouted Bull, who had not resumed his seat and was stood just behind Beowulf, 'We know you came to kill the King!'

'Boo!' shouted Mascarpone, who had been seriously celebrating the capture of Beowulf.

Beowulf continued,

'I came here to see your Majesty in order to warn His Royal Person about plots against Him. It is true that I have been contacted by parties that mean you harm; some of whom are here in this room, but it was never my intention to harm your Highness. I have taken the instructions and taken their money and come here tonight to reveal those plots to you.'

'Liar!' thundered Cardinal Bull, 'We know what you are doing, we know for whom you work. Spare us your godless lies, you vile murderer!'

Everyone else had gone very quiet. When Beowulf had said 'some of whom are here in this room,' there had been notable intakes of breath from several of the guests.

Beowulf turned his stare on the Cardinal,

'I do not lie. I will not be silenced; not while the life of a King hangs in the balance. I will tell the King what he needs to know and he will decide.'

All eyes turned to Louie-Louie,

'I think that we had better hear what he has to say.'

Chapter 11

In which Beowulf spills the beans (not literally!) and a confusion of allegations and counter allegations ensue.

'Do not let this viper speak!' shouted Cardinal Bull, 'We should send him to the dungeons now!'

'I agree!' shouted Mascarpone, not because he did, but because he was determined to show solidarity with his senior colleague, 'to the dungeons with him!'

While both Cardinals gathered their breath for the next bit of shouting Beowulf spoke quickly and softly,

'Your Highness, have your guards detain these men. They may seem to be your friends and allies but they are both deeply implicated in a plot against you. Their master, the Pope, is not content with the revenues he currently receives from Holy Gambling and he is planning to have you abducted; while France is leaderless he plans to impose a repressive theocratic government upon your people.'

'Nonsense!' bellowed Bull.

'Rubbish,' shouted Mascarpone, waving his arms for emphasis, 'we have never conspired against anyone! We are men of God!'

'Nonsense, rubbish,' repeated Beowulf calmly, keeping his eyes fixed on Louie-Louie,

'You know that they conspired against your brother.'

Beowulf paused to let this sink in. The Cardinals gasped. The British (even Caractacus, who had abandoned his poker monologue) looked alert. The guards stood ready, but unsure what to do.

'Yes, Louie- Louie,' continued Beowulf, 'I know who you are, and I have no plan to depose you. I just need you to know that you are not safe. These men,' he gestured at the Cardinals, 'have plotted to overthrow you, while pretending to be your friends. It is them who you should be sending to the dungeons!'

As if taking a cue the guards advanced cautiously towards Bull and Mascarpone.

'Your Majesty!' shouted Bull imploringly, 'this is not true; this is a web of lies! This man is trying to hoodwink you! He is distracting you from your true enemies!'

Louie-Louie considered. He had no experience for making judgements of this kind. Each story could be true or false and he had no way of discovering which was right.

'Heinrich,' he commanded, 'keep the prisoner Beowulf bound. Cardinal Bull; sit down please. Heinrich, also station some guards near Cardinal Bull while we get to the bottom of this story.

As more guards came in, the room became extremely crowded. Sat around the card table were Louie-Louie, Cardinals Bull and Mascarpone, Dorf, Caractacus, Boo Dikka, the dealer from the Casino (who looked just a little out of place) and Beowulf. Heinrich was by the door and standing behind those who were seated at the table were a dozen guards. Also hanging around in the background, eating the party food and completely oblivious to the unfolding drama (due to his lack of language and social skills) was Lewis. At that moment, the crowd was added to by the entrance of two rather dirty serving girls who began to pass around plates of food. Louie-Louie had an idea.

'It is very appropriate that we are sat at a poker table,' he laughed, 'for this is rather like poker; only the stakes are higher. One of you is bluffing and one is telling the truth. I think it is time that we put our cards on the table. Can either of you prove your allegations? Or will I need to send you all to the dungeons?'

'You wouldn't dare!' growled Bull.

'You aren't convincing him,' said Beowulf, 'I was contacted by a messenger from Cardinal Bull to request help in an assassination of 'the King of France', while myself and my colleague Roscow were journeying through Germany. A large sum of money was mentioned and help in gaining access to the target. As a professional adventurer I was obviously interested in such a large reward, however, I try to avoid regicide wherever possible; it is so bad for your reputation.'

'That's not true,' argued Bull, 'he killed King Lars and his Queen and I never sent him a message!'

'And so,' continued Beowulf, 'I decided to make all speed to France to warn your Majesty of this abominable, clerical plot. Alas, I nearly arrived too late as I have had to dodge the soldiers of the Pope wherever I have been.'

'Thank you,' said Louie-Louie, 'You may speak now, Bull.'

The Cardinal gathered himself in an effort to regain his composure. He had been worried that Beowulf would have some kind of trick. He almost had to admire how well the small man had done at casting doubt in Louie-Louie's mind, in throwing dust in the eyes (or rather, ears) of his listeners; but Cardinal Bull was not ready to be beaten. His eyes narrowed as he recalled a detail that would prove his case.

'Your Grace,' he addressed Louie-Louie, 'I have a document that proves that Beowulf is the conspirator and it points the finger of suspicion at the man, who I think, has conspired with him. That man is Marshall Gney.'

There was another of the gasps of surprise that seemed to be regularly punctuating the evening of His Majesties' stag night. With your leave, I will dispatch Cardinal Mascarpone to collect this proof. He can then return and we will see that it is these men,' he gestured at Beowulf and the Marshall, 'who need to be taken into custody.'

'I have never heard such a scurrilous pack of lies in my life!' shouted Marshall Gney in indignation, 'I am a hero of France and I will not sit here and be smeared by you, you fat priest!'

'You will!' asserted Louie-Louie quickly, 'because I command it!'

Louie-Louie felt that he was actually beginning to get the hang of the being King thing, 'You will all sit down and we will wait for Mascarpone to bring us the proof or otherwise. Any who disagree will be cut down by the guards. Mascarpone! I take it you know where to find the Cardinal's document?'

Mascarpone nodded.

'Then go and get it.'

'Can I suggest that we play poker until he returns?' asked Beowulf, 'I've always fancied a game, but never had the time. After all, it is your stag night'

'You are quite right,' replied Louie-Louie, 'You,' he said to Mascarpone, 'go fetch,' and you, he indicated the dealer, 'deal!'

Chapter 12

In which Mascarpone is unfairly tempted while the others enjoy a quite game of cards.

Amarilla was very worried. She knew that the 'document' referred to by Bull could only be one of the letters that her Uncle had sent to Beowulf to enlist his help in rescuing Louis. She was sure that it would not be written in plain language, however she did not rate the Marshall's skills as a master of intrigue highly enough to believe that his letter would not lead to his incrimination. She needed to stop Mascarpone retrieving the evidence.

Gently, she pulled Emsie's sleeve and nodded to the corridor. Both girl's quietly left the gambling room and went into the corridor.

'Amarilla, Amarilla, I am still here,' could still be faintly heard, emanating from the meat store.

'Mascarpone must be stopped,' said Amarilla, 'the letter he is going to retrieve will make it obvious that my Uncle has conspired against the King. If we go out through the kitchen and across the courtyard then we can beat him to his quarters.'

'That's fine, but what then?' asked Emsie, 'there is a limit to my capacity for violence. Since I met you I've brained a diplomat with a frying pan and tripped an army officer into a cupboard, now you want me to mug a priest, are you sure this is ladylike?'

'The role of women is changing for the better; but I don't think we'll need to hit the Cardinal as long as we get there in time. We'd better run.'

They ran.

Lewis was getting bored. He'd eaten quite a lot and then he'd drunk quite a lot. There wasn't anything else for him to do, and he couldn't understand what anybody was saying. They all seemed to be quite angry with each other and he couldn't see how Beowulf, who seemed to be a prisoner, was going to make him the King of France. It was all very odd. At that moment he really missed being home on the farm. You knew where you were with sheep. He noticed that the serving girls had just gone out. He was worried that he really must have been drinking a lot, because the extremely dirty one looked just like Amarilla de Cassiones. He was sure it couldn't have been her though; because she was going to marry the King of France. Now that was a good reason to be the King of France! He decided that he would just have to watch the stupid card game and try to figure out what was going on.

Henri the dealer shuffled the cards nervously; this was turning out to be an even tenser occasion than he had imagined. He was used to stress; gambling was, after all, that kind of a business: however this seemed to be a whole different level of unpleasantness. People were getting hurt. He wasn't keen on that at all. He was just supposed to be dealing the King some good cards. That hadn't been easy either; all the other players were cheating and he clearly wasn't going to point out that a Cardinal or a General, or whoever they were, had cards up their sleeve. It could really end badly.

Now this little guy that they had all been beating up was going to play. Henri decided not to think about it and just deal.

He dealt the Ace, King, nine, seven and three of Hearts to Louie-Louie; the Jacks of clubs and spades, together with three low cards to Gney; he dealt Boo Dikka the Ace and King of Spades and the Ace of Diamonds as well as two low cards: Bull he gave three Queens, but not the Queen of Hearts; Dorf had decided his role was to advise, rather than play and Caractacus Carruthers was still talking (mostly to himself) and so Henri had ignored him; to Beowulf he dealt a hand of low, unrelated cards. Beowulf had suggested that his stake could be funded by the 'assassination fund' when it was finally proved who had provided it. Louie-Louie had agreed to this.

Louie-Louie, already holding a flush was very confident, but wanted to downplay his hand,

'Fifty crowns.'

'Fifty,' agreed Gney, helping himself to another Jack from his store of cards.

'Aces are good, aren't they?' asked Boo innocently, 'I'll take fifty.'

'One hundred,' raised Bull, who was deciding whether to find a fourth queen, or a pair to make up a full house.

'One hundred,' agreed Beowulf, much to Henri's surprise. 'He must be cheating too!' he thought.

All the players agreed with the Cardinal's raise.

'This game could get quite expensive,' observed Caractacus, 'I suppose it's too late now to join in?'

Amarilla and Emsie had beaten the Cardinal to his room.

'Find writing paper,' Amarilla said, 'and the letter!'

The girls began to search frantically through Mascarpone's belongings.

Back in the gambling room, Henri had grown extremely nervous. He had dealt the King a winning hand, but the others were cheating. He realised that Louis was going to stick with his hand and, thinking he was winning, was going to lose a lot. He had a desperate idea.

'I think that I'll stick with what I've got,' said Louis.

'Three cards it is, Highness,' said Henri, pretending that he had misheard.

'No; I said-' began Louis, but before he could complete his phrase Henri had ripped the three lower hearts from his hand and placed three new cards on the table.

'As his Highness requests!' said Henri in a low, fraught voice.

'Hang on!' said Louie-Louie.

'What is happening,' shouted Bull, 'you, dealer! Your King did not request three cards, he wanted to stick. You need to be paying attention. Return the King's cards at once.'

While Bull was shouting Louie-Louie had picked up the cards.

'I don't think so, Cardinal,' said Louie-Louie, 'I think I did say three!'

The rest of the table agreed, as people tend to do when the King has spoken.

'Yes,' said Louie-Louie, 'it was definitely three! I think I'll raise your hundred to two hundred, Cardinal.'

Henri had passed Louie-Louie the ten, Jack and Queen of hearts.

Amarilla had found some writing paper and had written something swiftly, while Emsie continued to search the room. She had not yet found where the Cardinal kept the letter.

'Quickly,' said Amarilla, joining the search, 'he must be almost here.'

'I've looked everywhere,' said Emsie.

'Try under the bed.'

Emsie had just dived under the bed, when the door creaked open and Mascarpone walked in.

'What are you doing here?' he asked Amarilla suspiciously.

Marshall Gney had grasped the significance of the dealer' intervention and although he received a pair of nines to go with his pair of Jacks, potentially setting up a full house he knew that he was folding in response to Louie-Louie's raise. Boo Dikka also folded her hand even though Henri had passed her the King of Diamonds to tempt her.

'Your Grace must have a fine hand,' she said.

'It is quite promising,' agreed Louis-Louis, while attempting to stay cool.

'I'll raise your two hundred to four hundred,' said Cardinal Bull, who had palmed himself a pair of fives to give himself a full house. Sadly the Cardinal was a terribly rash gambler, who thought that he could win every hand. This had caused him some trouble in the past. Fortunately for him being on first name terms with someone who controlled access to the afterlife had allowed a number of impetuously acquired debts to be generously acquitted.

Beowulf, who had stuck with the very poor hand he had been dealt, smiled and said,

'Four hundred it is. I think your majesty will be making me rich.'

Louie-Louie laughed, but Bull angrily interjected,

'He'll be making you dead, when that letter is brought!'

'Cardinal Bull, let us not mix business with pleasure! I accept your bet, four hundred it is!'

'The pot stands at one thousand four hundred crowns,' said Henri a little shakily. He was very relieved to have got away with saving the King; but he was very worried about what Beowulf might be doing.

'Good evening, Cardinal!'

Amarilla was sat on Mascarpone's bed and attempting to look as alluring as her current disguise allowed, 'I'm surprised you are home so soon! I was expecting you later.'

Mascarpone's drunken brain tried (optimistically) to evaluate the situation and then (realistically) decided just to accept it. There was an impossibly dirty serving girl sitting on his bed.

'You are very dirty!' he blurted out.

'I was told that you liked a girl that way,' countered Amarilla, 'why don't you sit down?'

Mascarpone sat on the bed, but then remembered.

'I have to get a letter!'

He dropped to his knees and was about to look under the bed.

'In a minute!' said Amarilla, 'we haven't said "hello" yet.'

'No time, no time,' muttered Mascarpone.

'Couldn't you make some time?' asked Amarilla.

'Well, maybe.' Mascarpone pulled himself up to be sitting on the bed again.

'Got it!' whispered Emsie from under the bed, she had found a small chest and it seemed to contain a number of letters.

'You are really, really dirty!' said Mascarpone who was now becoming distracted by Amarilla, 'Is that gravy in your hair?'

Amarilla shuddered at the proximity of the deeply inebriated and progressively more amorous Cardinal. She quickly came to the conclusion that how ever good one's cause; there were things that should not be done in pursuit of it.

'You have forgotten your letter!' she reminded him. He was about to look under the bed again when Emsie shoved the chest out. Either the Cardinal missed this action or believed that the universe was spontaneously helping him.

'There it is!' he said happily and bent to open the chest.

Beowulf, Bull and Louie-Louie all stuck with the cards in their hands for the third round of bidding. Louie-Louie was delighted with his good fortune (and entirely oblivious to the fact that it was not good fortune at all), Bull was anxious; although he felt that he had given himself a good enough hand to win. Beowulf seemed to be quite calm and detached. The remaining occupants of the gambling room were paying close attention as the pile of gold in the centre of the table grew; apart from Lewis, who was still bored of eating and drinking. He really wished that someone spoke English. When he was King of France, he vowed, everybody was going to speak English! While he was looking aimlessly around the room, he inadvertently made eye contact with Beowulf, who looked pointedly at the door that led to the kitchen. Lewis followed his gaze and then looked back. Beowulf nodded briskly. Lewis wondered what he meant.

'I think it only fair to warn you that I have a rather good hand,' said Louie-Louie, 'and so I raise you all another four hundred.'

Unable to help himself, Bull glared at Louie-Louie. Catching himself being disrespectful he gave a small, fake chuckle,

'That is what Your Grace said when we were gaming at Montpellier,' he laughed.

'And you folded most unwisely that day!' smirked Louie-Louie. This angered Bull even further and he wanted to pursue the conversation retributively, however he realised that the card game at Montpellier had taken place when Louie-Louie was simply Louie-Louie and not pretending to be Louis, the King of France. He looked around shiftily, however there was no one in the room who could recognise this as a blunder as both Mascarpone and D'Orbergene, who had been at Montpellier, were absent.

'This time I shall not fold,' he said with confidence, 'I will cover your four hundred and raise you a further four hundred.'

The Britons looked longingly at the vast pile of gold that now occupied the centre of the table. Then they looked at Beowulf.

He shrugged and said,

'I haven't got that kind of money on me; however I am sure that I could cover it. May I write you a note?'

He addressed the question to Louie-Louie, who agreed. Bull looked as if he would like to disagree, however he was overruled.

'I'd bet you your Kingdom,' said Beowulf to Louis, 'But that wouldn't be a proper bet would it? I'll cover the eight hundred and I'll raise you four hundred more.'

Louis looked at his unbeatable hand and then his heart almost stopped beating. He had a Royal Flush. The possibility against drawing a royal flush was around six hundred and fifty thousand to one against (he had recently been advised of this by the Royal Mathematician, who knew of the Louis' liking for gambling) and a Royal Flush beat all other hands, _except for a better Royal Flush!_

Louis' flush was in hearts; surely neither Bull nor Beowulf could have a Royal Flush in Spades? Panic gripped him until he remembered that he was the King. He could afford to lose, he just didn't want to. He was sure that if he lost to Beowulf, he could simply have him executed and take all the money. He wasn't so sure he could do that with Bull. He calmed himself down. He wasn't going to lose!

'I'll take that bet,' he said. All eyes turned to Cardinal Bull. Bull had no inclination to back down, ever. Grimly he also accepted the bet.

After a bit of calculation, Henri nervously declared,

'The pot stands at five thousand gold crowns.'

While Mascarpone searched through the small chest for the missing letter Amarilla tried to come up with a plan to replace it with the one she had written before he had arrived. Her initial plan had been to insert the substitute letter into the correct envelope and allow Mascarpone to carry the wrong message away. She had then thought to distract him, allowing Emsie to complete the task; however she had not been able to stomach using herself as a decoy. They could always hit him, knock him down and then swap the letter, she thought cheerfully; however he would then know that something was amiss and it would be better if he did not. Time was running out; he had found the letter.

'My friend is hiding under your bed,' she said aiming for a tone she would describe as 'saucy.'

'Really?' asked Mascarpone in surprise, he was always interested in a novelty.

'She won't come out because she is even dirtier than I am,' said Amarilla as brazenly as she could manage, 'She wants you to look.'

Emsie was not too sure about this, but Mascarpone was keen to look. He put down the letter and began to crawl under the bed,

'Come to me, you dirty, dirty girl!' he said.

As Emsie scrambled further away from the on-crawling Cardinal, Amarilla deftly switched the letters.

'We mustn't keep Your Reverence!' she shouted, while moving swiftly to the door. Emsie, taking the cue slithered rapidly out from the opposite side of the bed and both girls ran laughing back towards the kitchen.

Mascarpone despondently regained his feet, picked up the letter and set off, back to the gambling room. For a moment he wondered what that had all been about, but as he was unable to work it out, he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and taking the evidence back to the King.

In the gambling room the peak moment of tension had arrived.

'The pot is five thousand crowns. There are three players, it is time to reveal the cards,' said Henri.

Bull looked apprehensively at Louie-Louie, who in turn smiled contentedly back.

'Let us see what you have, Cardinal,' said Louie-Louie.

Beowulf again looked at Lewis and then the door to the kitchen passage. Lewis thought to himself, 'he must mean something by this' and so went to the door and opened it. There was no one there; but as he looked down the passageway, the kitchen door opened and Amarilla and Emsie came swiftly out of the kitchen carrying trays of drinks. Lewis was about to stand aside to let the serving girls through. As he did, he again thought that one of the girls was Amarilla. This time he was sure! Although she was wearing plain and humble clothes and she was smeared with all kinds of kitchen dirt (was that gravy in her hair?) he could not be mistaken. Their eyes met in recognition of each other and the surprise of this caused Amarilla to fumble her tray of drinks. As she stumbled Lewis neatly caught hold of the tray and Amarilla.

'Thank you,' she whispered (in English, much to Lewis' delight).

'You're welcome,' he said and, having restored the tray to her, he let her go.

Henri looked round in exasperation,

'Serve the drinks then, but quickly, this is an important moment!'

The girls brought round the drinks, while the card players waited for the revelation of the winning hand. Amarilla's 'disguise' was not really working well, as her dishevelled appearance seemed to draw attention to her rather than deflect it. Marshall Gney had the uncomfortable sensation that he knew the serving girl with the strange hair, but he was not sure from where.

'Good health to the King of France,' toasted Beowulf, somewhat ambiguously under the circumstances. The others were compelled to second the toast.

'Thank you,' acknowledged Louie-Louie, 'Now shall we see if I have good fortune?'

'The pot stands at five thousand crowns,' began Henri, for the third time, but as he was about to ask Cardinal Bull to reveal his cards Mascarpone came in from the other door with his letter.

'I have the letter!' he shouted, 'now we will prove that it is with the Marshall and not with the Church that the hateful Beowulf has conspired against your Majesty!'

'Couldn't that wait?' asked Louie-Louie who was getting tired of waiting to collect his winnings.

'It cannot, your Highness,' said Bull, 'we must verify the truth of allegation and this will enable us to take the traitor into custody and keep your Grace safe.'

'The Cardinal is correct,' agreed Heinrich, 'if there is a traitor he must be revealed in order to maintain your royal safety.'

'I am not a traitor!' blustered Marshall Gney getting to his feet. 'This is ignominious! I am a hero of France and I will not be accused by this jackal of a man!'

He gestured at Mascarpone, indicating that he was the 'jackal of a man' that he would not be accused by, however it was Bull who answered.

'Sit down, sir! We both know what is in this letter. There will be no shouting after it is read.'

'Could you read the letter, then' asked Louie-Louie. Mascarpone opened the envelope and unfolded the paper. The guards and Heinrich readied themselves for action. As Mascarpone looked at the letter he began to appear confused.

'Read the letter,' commanded Bull.

Mascarpone continued to read the letter to himself.

'Read then letter!' directed Louie-Louie.

'There appears to be a mistake,' said Mascarpone looking anxiously across at Bull, 'this is supposed to be a letter from Marshall Gney conspiring with the accursed Beowulf to harm your majesty, but...'

'But what?' asked Louie-Louie.

'It appears to be Cardinal Bull's laundry list,' said Mascarpone.

Marshall Gney and Bull were both on their feet simultaneously.

'You will apologise for your base insinuations!' demanded Gney furiously. At this Bull was only able to turn bright red and rage inwardly. He had no proof without the letter. He had been tricked, or that fool Mascarpone had messed things up again! All eyes in the room turned towards Bull and there was nothing he could do or say. For a moment it looked as if he would burst, but with a great effort he managed to say,

'In the light of these circumstances I must withdraw my allegation.'

With another effort he sat down, as did the Marshall, who sat with a bemused sense of relief; he had been sure that the Cardinal must have intercepted one of his letters to Beowulf and could not fathom how it had not come to be read out.

'So,' said Beowulf, 'before we cart me off to the dungeon to find out by more painful means who I was supposed to be working for, shall we see who won the hand?'

Chapter 13

In which we find out who won at poker; and a fair bit more besides!

'The pot stands at...' began Henri, for the fourth time.

'We know what the pot stands at,' snarled Bull, happy to have a target to vent his rage at, 'It is five thousand crowns, as you have said I don't know how many times. It is time to reveal our cards and to see who has won and who has lost.'

He smiled grimly as he picked his cards up from the table and turned them over with a flourish,

'I have a full house; Queens over Fives. Do you have the beating of that, your Highness?'

Louie-Louie smiled. He took his time, turning over his cards one at a time,

'I think I do, your Holiness, I think I do. Look! Here is the Ten, Jack, Queen, King and Ace of Hearts; a Royal Flush, for a Royal King!'

He beamed at Bull and then looked over to Beowulf,

'I think you'll find that I have the winning hand here,' he said in a patronisingly good-natured sort of way, 'The thing is, Beowulf, that those that go up against royalty frequently get burned. I hope you enjoy your time in our dungeons. Guards, you may take him away.'

'Don't you want to see what cards I hold?' asked Beowulf politely, causing the guards to stop where they were.

'Go on then,' agreed Louie-Louie, 'it can do no harm.'

'So you would think,' said Beowulf. Slowly he picked up his hand of cards and half stood,

'Here,' he said, as if he were going to turn over the cards. Instead he put them face down on the table.

'I think you will find this a winning hand!'

The audience was confused.

'Turn them over,' some one said.

'What does he mean?' said Louie-Louie.

'This!' said Beowulf who sprang from his crouched position onto the table. Before anyone had a chance to react he had jumped down beside Louie-Louie and from somewhere produced a knife, which he held to Louie-Louie's throat.

'I think I had a pair of Threes,' he said, 'but I wasn't really concentrating. Please don't move,' he directed this comment at guards, 'I would hate to hurt the King.'

'Do as he says!' shouted a panicked Louie-Louie.

'For once I agree with the King,' observed Beowulf. Then in English he shouted, 'Lewis, the door!'

Thankfully, from Beowulf's perspective, this time the lanky Briton did understand what was required and again opened the door to the kitchen passage.

'I hope your Majesty won't mind accompanying me as I leave?' asked Beowulf, 'On your feet Louie!'

'You will not get away with this!' said Bull.

'I will enjoy trying though,' Beowulf replied, as he and Louis edged their way around the gambling room to the door.

'When we go out; if anyone follows, I will have to kill the King in order to make good my escape. That would be a tragedy which I'm sure we would all prefer to avoid.'

Heinrich, Bull and the guards were compelled to stand by helplessly and let him go.

'Thanks for the game!' said Beowulf as he and Louie-Louie went through the door. Then, again, in English he said, 'Come with me Lewis!'

Lewis followed and shut the door.

As soon as they were through the door, Beowulf said,

'They will quickly follow. Grab some stuff from the storeroom over there and slow the pursuit down.'

Lewis opened the door to the meat store and started removing carcasses and piling them against the door. As he did this they all heard a voice from the cupboard shouting,

'I'm still here! I'm waiting for you!'

'Ignore it,' said Beowulf. Lewis quickly piled up enough weight to slow anyone whom wanted to open the door.

'You won't escape,' said Louie-Louie, 'the building is surrounded.'

'We aren't going out,' said Beowulf, 'we are going to pay your brother a visit.'

They set off towards the kitchen.

Back in the gambling room there had been an astonished pause as soon as the door had slammed. Bull could not believe that Beowulf had snatched Louie-Louie from in front of them: from a room full of guards. Marshall Gney was amazed, a short while ago he had thought that Beowulf's plan had failed and that the conspiracy would be discovered; but now Beowulf seemed to be succeeding. The British delegation was delighted; Beowulf had snatched the imposter and got away with Lewis!

They were quickest into action, and almost a team, slowed the pursuit by causing confusion.

'He has the King!' roared Dorf, 'Get after him, numbskulls!'

'Wait! Wait! He will kill the King! Stop!' shouted Caractacus.

'We must reform and make a plan,' said Boo Dikka in her most regal tone.

The guards stood and looked at them.

In the pause Marshall Gney was again struck by the appearance of the dirty servant girl. 'It is Amarilla!' he thought. He opened his mouth to call to her, but before he could she had crossed the room to him.

'Yes,' she whispered, 'it is me! We have to follow Lewis, to make sure no harm comes to him.'

'Don't you mean Louis?' asked the Marshall.

'I'll explain later.'

At this point Bull and Heinrich came out of their stupor,

'Get after them!' Bull shouted at the guards, who were still watching the Britons.

'We need to set up a concerted inter-agency strategy, liaising with a hostage negotiator to ensure the safe return of the Monarch,' said Caractacus, 'while at the same time creating a cross-continental alert to keep the fugitives in view.'

'What rubbish is this?' cried Dorf, 'get after them; beat Beowulf to a pulp. Why are you still standing here?'

'Gentlemen, I feel we are no closer to having a strategy than before,' said Boo Dikka.

'Wait for them to go and we will follow,' whispered Amarilla to Gney.

'You seem to have this planned,' he replied.

'Not really, I'm just improvising.'

Heinrich was trying to regain the attention of the guards.

'Listen! Guards! This is the plan; half of you will follow through the kitchen passage. Do not try to recapture the King unless I say. The rest of you go round the other way and make sure that he cannot escape through the courtyard. I will lead the group through the kitchen; Cardinal Bull will accompany the guards to the outside. If you see the King, do nothing that will cause Beowulf to harm him, just follow and do not let them get away. Go now!'

Finally the guards began their pursuit, one group started trying to break down the door to the kitchen passage, and the others went with Bull out of the other door that would lead them round to the courtyard. Amarilla, Emsie and Gney followed on behind this group.

Meanwhile, Beowulf had run into trouble in the kitchen; Mme Frappedelapins was blocking his path armed with a large kitchen knife.

'Who are you, and why are you dragging this man through my kitchen?' she demanded, pointing the knife at Louie-Louie who Beowulf had gripped around the neck.

'I think that you are up to no good and I will not have this kind of thing happening in my kitchen.'

'Madame Chef,' said Beowulf, 'I regret to be soiling your kitchen by using it for purely political purposes, however the fate of France lies with my ability to progress through your fine, exquisitely run and highly professional kitchen.'

'I do not care about the fate of France!' shouted Mme Frappedelapins, 'The fate of nations is as nothing to an artist such as myself. It is _unprofessional_ to drag a man through my kitchen in this manner. You must go a different way! Simone, help me defend the honour of the kitchen!'

Simone appeared from behind a rack of equipment wielding an oversize meat cleaver.

'I am glad to see you take your vocation seriously,' said Beowulf, while he tried to concoct a story.

'The honour of the kitchen is at stake,' replied Simone, without a flicker of humour.

'I am the King of France!' shouted Louie-Louie,

'I find that most unlikely,' replied Mme Frappedelapins, 'The King of France would not suffer himself to be dragged through the kitchens; it would compromise his authority.'

'Look at that!' shouted Beowulf suddenly, pointing to a dish that stood on one of the preparation tables, 'Have you ever seen such a perfect soufflé?'

He directed this question to Lewis; who being unable to understand French merely shrugged.

'How can you shrug at a soufflé such as this, philistine? Madame, are you the originator of such a gorgeous creation? That is a work of divine beauty?'

Louie-Louie, who had managed to drag his head up shouted,

'It is only a soufflé, I am the King! You must help me!'

'Silence, degenerate idiot!' replied Beowulf, 'You know not of what you speak. If I had time Madame, I would ask you for your secret; not that I think that I could replicate such flawless, precision; but I would love to attempt a feat of such magnificence!'

Before Mme Frappedelapins could reply Beowulf had moved on;

'Oh, but that is not the masterpiece,' he cried looking into pan that was simmering on the stove, 'Observe the breathtaking clarity of the consommé! May I taste it?'

He grasped a spoon and tasted,

'I am beyond rapture!' he said and fell to his knees, bringing Louie-Louie with him, 'I must be in the presence of the greatest Chef in France! Please, dear lady, tell me your name, so that when I have escaped my pursuers I may return and humbly worship at your culinary altar! I suspect that you can induce a taste of smokiness in meat while still preserving its natural flavour and I have faith that your Mille Feuille will possess the crispest of textures?'

'Indeed it does,' said Simone in agreement, raising his cleaver, 'but no one comes through here unless Mme Chef says so!'

'No, Simone,' said Mme Frappedelapins, who was quite impressed by Beowulf's flattery, 'these are obviously good people who are fellow travellers on the road to culinary perfection; except for _him!_ ' she pointed out Louie-Louie, 'We must aid their escape!'

'Thank you great lady!' said Beowulf, hurriedly dragging Louie-Louie along, 'We are in your debt. I must warn you that a bunch of terrible barbarians who do not treasure the artistry of the cuisine are pursuing us; please delay them as much as you can!'

'We will happily hinder them,' grinned Simone, 'if Mme Chef approves, that is.'

'Simone; it is our duty. Ready the stockpots!'

'Thank you again Madame Chef!' cried Beowulf as he set off with Louie-Louie down the staircase that led into the dungeon. 'Follow us Lewis!'

Mme Chef and Simone began to prepare for the defence of the kitchen.

Back in the gambling room the pursuing troops under the command of Heinrich finally managed to break down the door and burst through into the corridor beyond. They made their way through the piles of carcasses that Lewis had used to wedge the door shut and set off towards the kitchen, ignoring the shouts of 'Amarilla! Amarilla! I am still here waiting!' that seemed, for some reason to be coming from the store room.

After the departure of the troops, the gambling room seemed eerily quiet; Mascarpone, Boo Dikka, Dorf and Caractacus sat with Henri at the table drinking the King's best wine.

'This is all really rather exciting,' said Caractacus happily, 'I think this undercover agent stuff is great!'

''nother drink!' said Mascarpone, who had already had quite enough, 'Bull's gonna kill me when this is over.'

'Never mind,' said Boo kindly, 'you are sure to go to Heaven.'

'Not if Bull's 'nything to do with it,' slurred Mascarpone.

'I shouldn't think he is,' said the Queen.

As Mascarpone subsided quietly on the table, she surveyed the huge pile of gold that had been abandoned at the conclusion of the game. She turned to Henri and said, 'I think the dealer gets ten percent as a tip; that is five hundred; I think we can look after the rest.'

Henri nodded thoughtfully; then scooped up some coins and left.

'Good boy!' said Dorf, who produced a large sack and started to fill it. Caractacus got up and lent a hand.

'Whatever happens with the succession; we are a richer, happier nation after tonight,' declared Boo Dikka, 'let us get out of here and head down town.'

'Suits me,' said Dorf, 'I hope we can still find somewhere that sells a proper drink.'
Chapter 14

In which the chase heats up (literally); the Chef's cook up a defence, Emsie tries her hand as a temptress (with somewhat mixed results), Beowulf visits the prison and makes a withdrawal, Dorf finds a new way to cash his chips, Mascarpone has a dream and the evening really does go with a bang!

Cardinal Bull stood in the monastery courtyard and furiously glared at each of the guards who accompanied him, as if each and every one of them was responsible for the disappearance of Beowulf and 'The King.'

The escapees were not in the courtyard, nor were they in the stables, and they had neither gone through the gates nor scaled the walls. They must, therefore, be somewhere within the Casino building. They could only have accessed any of these places by coming out of the kitchen back door; and the guards who were stationed there swore that no one had come in or gone out, since the serving girls had gone in some time ago. When the Cardinal had expressed doubt they demonstrated that the kitchen door was firmly locked from the inside.

'Very well,' said Bull, 'if they have not come out then they must be trapped in the kitchen area. Heinrich and the other guards are following them into the kitchen area. Either Heinrich will capture them there or they will come through here to escape. If they do that; we will catch them. We will wait!'

The guards formed a semi circle facing the door and did as they were instructed.

Hanging back from this group and lurking in the shadows between the stable block and the main gate, Amarilla, who was accompanied by Emsie and a surprised Marshall of France, had another idea.

'I bet they'll double back,' she whispered, 'behind the kitchens is a maze of corridors and stores. I think they'll lose the guards in the kitchen and somehow try and come out of the front door.'

They looked at the front door of the Casino. Two guards patrolled this area in a rather nonchalant way, as if _they_ didn't expect any trouble. Beyond them the way to the main gate and out of the monastery altogether was unguarded, due to the earlier 'capture' of Beowulf and the sudden demand for guards to join in the chase after his escape.

'I think we can take them,' said Amarilla calmly.

'Always the violence,' observed Emsie, 'or are we doing the luring thing?'

Marshall Gney looked at his niece with a mixture of horror, admiration and fascination as she replied,

'I think it will need a bit of both this time.'

'Amarilla, do you know what you are doing?' asked the Marshall.

'Believe me she does,' said Emsie, 'Who do you think swapped your letter? Now keep up, we need to knock out the guards.'

Simone hurled the stock pot with a glorious howl of rage. It struck the head of the guard who had just been foolish enough to try to enter the kitchen after Mme Frappedelapins had forbidden access to all non kitchen personnel, for reasons of hygiene.

'We do not want you dirty guards parading through our kitchen with your filthy boots, unwashed hands and menial subservient souls!' she had yelled as Heinrich and the guards had approached the kitchen door,

'Access is denied! You may not enter! Food preparation is taking place here and will not be interrupted for your venial concerns. If you choose to disregard this warning, we will, turn the might of the kitchen against you.'

'Madame,' Heinrich had shouted from the corridor, 'we are seeking an evil man who has kidnapped the rightful king of France and escaped through your kitchen. Please allow us through.'

'You are mistaken! That man was no King; he slighted my soufflé and is therefore some kind of degenerate barbarian. If you serve a lackey such as this, I hold you in the same contempt as I do the Parisian food critics. I say that, while there is breath in my body, you shall not pass!'

Heinrich was beside himself. He had no time to be dealing with megalomaniac chefs.

'We are coming in. If you resist, then we will use force,' he warned.

'Then go ahead!' shouted Mme Frappedelapins, 'the honour of the kitchen is infringed. We will shortly be spitting on your graves while you regret the error that placed you in our path!'

It was then that the first guard had entered the kitchen and been stock potted by Simone, who stood alongside Mme Frappedelapins, behind a makeshift barricade of kitchen furniture.

The next three guards were not so hesitant and charged flat out into the kitchen where they skidded in the thick grease that Simone and Mme Chef had covered the floor with. As they went crashing down, Simone flicked a spark onto the grease, which caught fire with surprising ease. The guards shrieked and crawled back towards the corridor.

Simone winked at Mme Frappedelapins, who nodded with something like approval.

'Sautéed,' he said.

Lewis followed Beowulf, and the little French chap he was dragging, down a flight of stairs and into a large underground room that seemed to be a prison or dungeon. A number of barred doors lined two walls of the room, which was bare of furniture apart from a key rack against one wall and a desk against the other; here a burly warder was sitting and drinking from a bottle.

Had Lewis been able to understand French he would have understood Beowulf saying the following,

'You, warder, look here! Your prisoner has escaped, got upstairs, nearly upset the party and you haven't even noticed!'

Erich looked and was horrified to see a man he assumed to be Louis in the grip of a stranger.

'Let's get him back in the cells before Bull finds out!' said Beowulf. Erich was only too happy to comply; he didn't want any trouble with Bull.

Had Erich understood English he would have understood Beowulf saying to Lewis,

'When he opens the cell door, hit him hard,' and he would have understood Lewis replying,

'Right you are! I guess he's a bad one.'

Louie-Louie, who did understand both things, was having trouble expressing himself, due to being dragged violently around by Beowulf, who had proved to be deceptively strong. Louie-Louie realised, however, that this might be a life or death situation and so he shouted,

'Look out!' as Erich turned and unlocked the cell. Erich, thanks to his considerable experience and training did not react to prisoners shouting, and so, as soon as the door began to swing open, he was felled by a stunning blow from Lewis.

'Nice,' said Beowulf. Once again Lewis thought about how good it was when everybody spoke English.

'Good evening, Louis!' said Beowulf, 'We're here to rescue you!'

Louis, who was in the cell and had not been expecting imminent rescue, was both astonished and grateful. He was prepared to express this gratitude (and surprise), possibly at some length.

'We've still got to get out,' said Beowulf, implying that necessity might require the cutting short of well mannered thankfulness, 'and then get away. There might be time for appreciation later. Could you help me drag your brother? Lewis, lock the jailer in the cell and then let's go!'

This time Emsie wanted to take a turn at luring, leaving the hitting to Amarilla and Marshall Gney. The guards had temporarily stopped wandering and come to a standstill by the large door that led into the Casino building.

'Hi, you, over there, hello!' she shouted, keeping close to the stables where Gney and Amarilla waited. The guards, who were called Claude and Jean, where obviously surprised to be hailed.

'What is it?' said Jean, who was cautious by nature.

'It looks like a girl,' said Claude, who was the observant one of the pair.

'What do you think she wants?' asked Jean.

'What do girls ever want?' replied Claude, revealing philosophical depths that Jean was immediately troubled by.

'What do you mean by "what do girls ever want?" Am I supposed to know the answer to that?'

'No, you're not; don't worry. I think it's called a rhetorical question,' said Claude, 'in my experience, which is considerable, girls usually want romance, flowers, diamonds, puppies, marriage, babies, kitchenware; that sort of thing.'

'How did you get to be so knowledgeable about girls all of a sudden?' asked Jean, with his distinctive brand of distaste and suspicion.

Amarilla's incautiously audible groan of rage and frustration were neatly covered by Emsie saying,

'This girl here would like to get a closer look at two handsome guards.'

'Why don't you come over here and look at us, then?' asked Jean, who was clearly oblivious to the suggestive nuance of her tone.

'Why don't you come over here and let me look at you?' replied Emsie, who was beginning to wish that she had stuck to the 'hitting people' part of the plan.

'That's a good idea,' said Claude.

'No it isn't,' argued Jean, 'it's much darker over there. It's no good trying to be looked at by girls in the dark.'

Emsie was out of patience,

'Do you want me to look at you or not?'

'Yes!' said Claude.

'No,' said Jean.

At that moment the door opened and Boo Dikka, Caractacus Carruthers and Dorf came out. Dorf was carrying a large and heavy sack.

'Stop!' said Jean.

'Wait!' said Claude.

'No,' said Dorf and he swung his sack briskly knocking Jean to the ground. Caractacus looked at the fallen guard and said,

'He's knocked out. You could say "cashiered!"'

Boo Dikka looked at Claude fiercely,

'Run!' she instructed. Claude looked at the towering presence of the British Queen and her piratical associates; he decided to do as he was told.

Emsie stepped back into the shadows and the Britons walked casually down the drive, not having seen her. They appeared to be discussing what fun it was to be on holiday in France.

After they had gone Amarilla, Emsie and Gney made their way over to the Casino entrance, where they planned to await the escaping Beowulf and Lewis. As they passed Jean, he half opened an eye and groaned.

'You had your chance and you didn't take it!' said Emsie, who was slightly put out that the guards hadn't been swift enough to take her bait.

Unsurprisingly Jean did not reply and sought solace by passing out again.

The siege of Mme Frappedelapins kitchen was heating up. This rising heat was both literal and metaphorical; Simone's 'wall of fat' had, since he ignited it, turned into a 'wall of flame.' Mme Frappedelapins and Simone had, in defence of the honour of the kitchen, kept up a constant barrage of sharp or heavy implements at the guards, who were trying to get in through the door and past the leaping flames. Although at first, the barrage had been a very effective strategy, as time went on, it had become less so. This was partly due to the overwhelming number of guards, who could afford to take turns to try to get through the doorway, but it was more seriously affected by the diminishing quantity of suitable things to throw. The knives, pans, grinders and medium sized pieces of kitchen equipment had all gone. They were now down to cups and bowls. It was only the narrowness of the doorway and the height of the flames that maintained the viability of their defensive position.

'I do not think that we can hold them much longer!' cried Mme Frappedelapins as she hurled a fruit bowl over the inferno.

Simone grinned and showed her what he had been saving for such an eventuality.

'It seems a shame to waste it,' she said sadly, 'however it would cover our retreat. I think we have bought our friend enough time.'

Simone was holding a rare bottle of 'Father Ricardo de Ricci's Malevolent Apple Brandy' which had a well earned reputation as both a lethally intoxicating drink and as a highly volatile incendiary accelerant. It had been in the kitchen for some years, waiting for the right occasion, which had finally presented itself. Simone shed a tear, unscrewed the cap, offered a nip to Mme Chef (which she accepted), took one himself and then hurled the bottle into the flames with a cry of,

'Don't mess with the chefs!'

Mme Frappedelapins and Simone wisely and swiftly exited the kitchen through the spare stockroom before the inevitable had time to occur.

'We've got them now!' shouted Heinrich, shortly before there was a low whooshing sound followed by the sharp hiss as the fireball consumed the kitchen.

'What was that noise?' asked Cardinal Bull.

The nearest guard just pointed, as part of the kitchen wall collapsed and great tongues of fire began to appear through the fissures in the stone.

'What is happening in there?' he asked. The guard shrugged.

'Keep watching the door,' commanded the Cardinal.

'Nothing is coming out of there,' said the guard, 'shall we fetch water?'

Bull tried to weigh the implications of both possible Kings of France being immolated in a Monastery fire, but couldn't manage it. He wasn't even sure who was next in line for the throne; let alone what their views were on Holy Gambling and the tribute to the Papacy. He could see his mission going (literally) up in smoke. He did not want to explain this to the Holy Father.

'Get water quickly, we must get in and rescue the King!'

The guards began to look around for water.

Beowulf and the triplets had done well. They had escaped from the dungeon using one of the keys from the key rack that opened a door which led onto a different passage and this had brought them up into a guardroom next to the front door. Things were going so well that Beowulf was tempted to quickly check out the gambling room and see if any of the gold was still there; however he (correctly) assumed that any monies left would already have been stolen. All that now needed to be done was to escort the triplets through the front door, out through the front gate and round to the back wall of the Monastery where Roscow would be waiting with the getaway vehicle.

'Come on,' he said. He was a little worried that he could smell a fire. The sooner they were clear of the Monastery the better. Lewis opened the front door and they both quickly looked around.

'Over here!' hissed Marshall Gney. The Marshall beckoned to Beowulf. 'The way ahead seems clear, the girls have scouted ahead, and all the guards are round at the back.'

Beowulf was not best pleased to see Gney, his plan had been to steal all three Louis', go somewhere quiet and then decide which one was the rightful King of France for Beowulf. He planned to do this without outside interference. He smiled at the Marshall,

'That's good,' he said. He could always lose the Marshall in the escape. 'Let's go.'

The escaping group had just set off down the path away from the Casino towards the main gate when there was a loud explosion. They turned to see that almost half of the Monastery was now on fire.

'How did that happen?' asked Beowulf in awe, 'I wasn't even trying!'

As they stood looking at the flaming building there was a shout from near the stables.

'They're round the front!'

One of the Cardinal's guards had come to the stables looking for water and spotted the escapees and he was now raising the alarm.

'What do we do now?' said Louis.

'Run!' shouted Beowulf. They set off for the gate.

Back in the Gambling Room, Cardinal Mascarpone was dreaming. It was a beautiful dream. He was in a great house that somehow he knew he was the owner of. It was tastefully decorated with tapestries and paintings and gold, but what he liked best was that in each room there was more and more food and drink. Each bite was more delicious and each sip more intoxicating than the last. It was heaven! The British Queen was right! He had (against all probability and Biblical admonition) ascended! Joyfully, he skipped along the corridors intent on sampling the delights of his new abode. After some time he found himself in a room that was vaguely familiar. He looked around; there was a large table and on it was a pack of cards. Something troubled him about the room. It did not feel the same as the other rooms in the house. He took a sip from a glass that was standing on the table. It tasted strange and smoky; it made him feel very tired. He rested his head on the table. He was just drifting off to sleep when his shoulder was grabbed and shaken,

'Wake up!' called a voice, 'Wake up!'

Sluggishly the Cardinal opened his eyes and to his horror he saw that one wall of the real Monastery Gambling Room was a mass of flames. He had been wrong; this was not Heaven, it was Hell. Holding his arm was a black and red demon who was also shouting at him. Another black and red demon was beating at the flames and also shouting.

'I repent!' he shouted loudly, with a religious fervour that he had not experienced for many years.

'Don't leave me here,' he shouted at the ceiling. There was no answer from above, but the demon pulled him from his seat and said,

'I'm trying not to, but we must go!'

Realisation dawned slowly on the inebriated Cardinal and it was not until the other demon said,

'We must go! I didn't save you from that cupboard in order that you burn to death in the gambling room.'

That Mascarpone understood. He was in the gambling room that was somehow on fire and D'Orbergene and Heinrich, who had clearly been in the fire, were saving him!

'Thank you!' he shouted ecstatically, 'Thank you! Take me from the flames! I shall be renewed! I shall be good!'

Heinrich, D'Orbergene and a number of the more fortunate guards had no time to ponder this strange exclamation as they needed all, their strength to run before the flames. They escaped down the corridor that led to the front door, just in time to emerge into the safety of the night air, at the same moment that Cardinal Bull's group rounded the building in pursuit of Beowulf and the Louis' who had fled to the Monastery gate.

'I'm alive!' screamed the transformed Mascarpone, when he saw Cardinal Bull, 'I have been spared!'

'For the moment, anyway,' agreed Bull, who did not seem delighted to see him, 'We must recapture the Louis'!'

They set off together in pursuit.

Chapter 15

In which a high speed thrilling chase (in donkey carts) down the perilous path from the Monastery to village of Monte San Carlos occurs. During this reckless and dangerous exploit, Bull, Heinrich and D'Orbergene do everything they can to try to catch up. The Louis boys have some 'catching up' of their own to do, and two determined trackers each try to catch up with Beowulf. Very few safety rules are given proper regard.

Although Roscow was feeling moderately worried about Beowulf, (despite the fact that Beowulf's regular return from "do-or-die", hopelessly impossible, high risk, life threatening missions, had, to some extent, taken the edge from whatever anxiety Roscow might naturally have felt) he had to admit that he was having a delightful evening. After he and Gareth had separated from Beowulf, they had taken a pleasant stroll through the pine woods, enjoying the gentle evening sunlight and the gradual cooling of the air, until they had eventually reached the rendezvous point.

It was there that Roscow encountered the source of his evening's entertainment.

'Are you thee freend of Beeovulf? I am to see that 'ee 'as thee finest donkee cart,' said Pedro, who was waiting for them. Roscow loved an accent, any accent, and from that moment on, he was in heaven. He was determined to make the most of this unexpected opportunity to learn this ridiculous accent (and later inflict his version of it on an unsuspecting Beowulf) and so they had spent the waiting hours in profitable conversations, such as;

'Pedro, say "I am sailing from Byzantium to Tripoli but my ship is leaking and taking in water."'

'Ho Kay!-'

'Did you just say "Ho Kay"?'

'I deed. Now I try. I am seeling from Beezanteeum to Treepolee, but my sheep eet ees leekeeng and takeeng een thee water. Ho kay?'

'That's great; especially the part about the sheep. Now could you say "how much wood would a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck would chuck wood"?'

'No. I don't theenk I can say thees theeng.'

'Try. Please? Give it a go.'

'Ho Kay.'

It came therefore as a bit of a shock when the Monastery had caught fire and he was reminded that he was waiting in the woods on business; and not just any business; he was waiting in the woods on important, life or death, 'pivotal moment in history' business. He looked at the fire with some satisfaction and said,

'Luuk at thut! Ma boy'll be alung in a minutt! 'Ee aluss cums alung after a fur!'

Pedro looked alarmed,

'Your voice? Eet as all gone funnee,' he said.

'Sorry,' said Roscow, 'I just like to practice; that was "Northern." We had better get into the cart and just slowly roll down towards the Monastery. I expect that he will arrive at a run any minute now.'

Beowulf, the triplets, Emsie and Amarilla cleared the main gate and turned up the track that wound around the Monastery leading to the road where Beowulf intended to meet Roscow. Despite Lewis and Beowulf having to half-drag a reluctant Louie-Louie, they appeared to have gained ground from their pursuers.

'Not much further,' shouted Beowulf, 'we have a fast cart on the road.'

The others continued to run without comment, apart from Louie-Louie, who kept shouting,

'Let me go! I am the King of France!' No one paid him any attention.

As they neared the road Amarilla suddenly had a sensation that something was not right; she looked around,

'My Uncle!' she shouted. Both Emsie and Amarilla stopped. Although the Marshall was a tough old warrior it was the second adjective rather than the first that was the most accurate descriptor of his performance in fleeing the guards.

He was struggling up the path, quite a long way behind Beowulf's party and not that far in front of the guards, who were being led by a charred looking Heinrich and Eugene D'Orbergene.

'We must save him!' Amarilla said.

Beowulf stopped and looked at her in disbelief,

'How?' he asked.

'Aren't you supposed to be a hero?' she demanded angrily.

'Who me?' he laughed and turned back up the path, 'I'm a legend!' The others, apart from Emsie, followed.

'I'll get him!' said Emsie, 'I have a plan! You stay with Lewis and see that he's all right,' and with that Emsie set off, sprinting down the path.

'I just hope it doesn't involve luring anyone,' said Amarilla, under her breath as she turned and followed Beowulf up to the road.

Naiman had spotted an interesting development. He had positioned himself higher up the road; so that he could watch both Beowulf's companion and his cart (which he noted with some annoyance was provided and driven by the same Pedro who could not find Naiman a donkey cart!), and the extra guards that Heinrich had commissioned. They were waiting slightly further up the road than Pedro, and appeared not to know that he was there. From this vantage point, where he sat, astride Burro Rapido, who seemed to be a very well trained and amenable animal (although not exactly 'lightning fast'), Naiman had seen a fire start in the Monastery and then grow. At this point both sets of donkey carts had begun to move down the road towards the Monastery, apparently independently and unaware of each other. Naiman noticed that the guard's carts were gaining ground and would soon be able to see Pedro's cart.

'Time to go,' he said to himself as he dug his heels into the mule's flanks. They set off in pursuit, down the hill, at a brisk trot.

The guards who were in charge of the fast donkey carts were not the best trained or well led of Heinrich's men. He had really not anticipated using them, as his thinking had been that he would be able to prevent Beowulf from getting into the Monastery, and, if that failed, that he could trap him within. The possibility that Beowulf could get into the Monastery, steal the King and get out had seemed remote to him and so it was his _least_ trusted men who were now, in a surprising show of imitative, rolling downhill towards the Monastery. They had set off on the basis that they might be needed, as the fire that was now burning fiercely, looked like it could be 'a bad thing.'

The lead guards were surprised to see another donkey cart ahead of them.

'Is that one of ours?' asked the driver, whose name was Rousseau.

'Could be,' said his accomplice, who rejoiced in the unlikely name of Brutus.

Behind them in the cart were two crossbow men (Axel and Franke) who expressed their readiness to 'treat it to the shower of death' and 'fill it fuller of holes than a colander'. Brutus overruled these cheerfully expressed yet psychotically violent sentiments on the basis that, 'we don't even know if they are the bad guys. What if it turns out that they are on our side, some of our lads, eh?' The trigger happy crossbow men shrugged to show that 'it weren't any skin off our nose,' and waited for things to develop.

As they watched, several dark figures came alongside the stranger's pony cart. Two of them (one of whom looked awfully like the King of France) threw a body (which also looked suspiciously like the King of France) into the back and jumped in. As the cart picked up speed a tall, blond man (who looked nothing like the King of France) and a very dirty young woman jumped in.

'Do you think that looked a bit fishy?' said Brutus.

'Dunno,' said Rousseau, 'I had my eyes on the road.'

Emsie's plan was simple, basic and direct.

Marshall Gney was running, as fast as his old knees would carry him, up the path away from the Monastery, which had the perimeter wall on one side and the forest on the other. He was still slightly ahead of The Cardinal's guards, who were running quickly uphill and gaining on him.

'Keep on;' shouted D'Orbergene, 'we must get to the King!'

As the fastest guards closed on the Marshall, so did Emsie. When they were all close enough to touch, Emsie accelerated again and launched a flying tackle that knocked the surprised old soldier off his feet, off the path, past his pursuers and down into the forest. The forest floor sloped steeply away from the path at this point and so Emsie and Gney, in a flurry of knees and elbows, rolled and bumped rapidly down the hill, away from the pursuit and into the undergrowth.

The leading guards paused and stared into the darkness of the forest.

'Leave them,' shouted Heinrich, 'they are of no importance. Onwards we must go, we must rescue the King!'

The guards turned and ran on, up the path and away, leaving Emsie and the Marshall in a crumpled heap. The old man was wheezing, or making some strange sound that made Emsie worried that she might have seriously injured him. She was battered and bruised from the fall and roll. He, being much older, could easily have broken some bones. Reflecting that her plan, although effective, had been quite reckless, she pushed herself up and away from him and then rolled him over. His face was red and Emsie now thought that he was choking.

'Are you hurt?' she said.

'I...I...I...' the Marshall was unable to get out the words. Emsie watched and waited, with her heart beating furiously; she was supposed to have saved Amarilla's Uncle, not killed him! She thought sadly of her new friend and worried about how she could make things right.

'I...I...I...' the Marshall still could not speak, his shoulders were shaking, and Emsie wondered if he was in shock. She tried to remember what should be done with casualties.

'Take your time, try to breathe,' she said

'I...I...I haven't enjoyed myself so much in years,' he spluttered, eventually, 'I think I may have broken my leg, but it was worth it! How exciting!'

Emsie sighed with relief and the Marshall continued to laugh painfully.

While he did this Emsie wondered about the oddness of men's minds and how on earth she was going to get him home.

Naiman pulled up Burro Rapido at the side of the road behind the guard's donkey carts, which seemed to have stopped for no discernable reason. He was puzzled by this. He had clearly seen Beowulf, the tall Briton and Amarilla de Cassiones jump into Pedro's cart along with Louis and Louie-Louie. The thing to do was pursue, but the guards had stopped and appeared to be looking for direction. Naiman considered the risks of overtaking; he would definitely be seen; but if he did not go Beowulf might get clean away! He was just about to spur Burro Rapido into action when he saw a group of shouting guards come alongside the pony carts and leap on board. As soon as this happened the carts accelerated down the track. Naiman breathed a sigh of relief and set Burro Rapido off again, following the carts. His plan was still on track.

Heinrich, and a number of his guard, had managed to get aboard the first cart with Brutus, Rousseau, Franke and Axel. They had managed to swing into action and get the cart moving as soon as Heinrich was on board and he had been able to shout at them properly. D'Orbergene, who was also accompanied by some guards, had got onto the second cart, while Bull had just managed to catch the third. He briefly wondered where the newly saved Cardinal Mascarpone had gone, but he dismissed the thought as unimportant. The pursuit of the King was everything, and now they were on the road to recapture him.

The track from the Monastery of Monte San Carlos down to the village below is the stuff of a legend. It is a narrow, twisting, chalk based switchback with numerous hairpins and sudden drops that make it perilous to negotiate, even while driving relatively carefully; as a setting for a desperate high speed chase it is positively murderous. Fortunately, for all involved in this escapade, 'fast' donkey carts are not significantly different from 'slow' donkey carts', in that neither of them will go especially quickly under any conditions.

'Go faster!' commanded Beowulf, as the donkey (whose name was 'Banshee', Pedro's unasked for explanation: 'she goes like a screemeer!') plodded steadfastly along the path in a melancholy manner, slightly faster than the average man would walk.

'She ees flats out!' replied Pedro, 'See how she spreents! Go on my beautee!'

Beowulf looked behind, in something that came as close to despair as he would allow; to have come so far and then be captured for a stupid donkey! His look astern quickly recovered his spirits, as it was obvious that the other donkey carts were equally as fast as his own and the commanders of these would have their work cut out in order to make them go any faster.

'Charge!' commanded Heinrich, 'We have them in sight. Let us run them off the road!'

'We are charging, sir!' said Rousseau, 'Look at the pace old Quicksilver is putting out; it's stupendous!'

Quicksilver may perhaps have been gaining a couple of inches every hundred feet; however this was not enough for Heinrich.

'We have to stop them! We must deploy special tactics.'

'With respect, sir, we don't know what that means,' said Brutus, speaking for the team.

Heinrich explained, causing Franke and Axel to go white with fear.

In Beowulf's cart, the Louis' were catching up.

'You had me kidnapped and imprisoned and you stole my kingdom!' shouted Louis, who was perhaps a tiny bit displeased with his brother.

'Bull made me do it! I didn't want to. He said it was you or me,' replied Louie-Louie.

'So you picked you!'

'Wouldn't you?'

'Even so.'

'Quite!'

The brothers glared at each other. Roscow decided it could be fun to stir things up a bit,

'Actually, you both stole his Kingdom,' he said gesturing at Lewis, 'he's your older brother; so you both robbed him.'

Both Louis' favoured Lewis with an incredulous stare.

'You have to speak English though,' he added as a provocative afterthought, 'he doesn't understand French!'

Amarilla, who happened to overhear this, was shocked;

'Did you say that Lewis is the rightful king of France?' she asked, forgetting to speak in English so that he could understand.

'Didn't you know?' replied Roscow, 'he's part of the British plot; they want a French King who is favourable to Britain.'

Amarilla looked at Lewis,

'They said he was a servant!'

'Disguise,' said Roscow, 'someone would have bumped him off if they had known.'

Suddenly Amarilla was sure about who the _right_ king of France should be.

'How did this happen?' she asked.

'In English, please!' begged Lewis, who felt that he was being talked about, especially by the beautiful Amarilla and he wanted to know what was going on.

'The story goes like this,' said Roscow, who personally didn't believe a word of it, however he was enjoying the attention of Amarilla and the three possible Kings of France; besides, telling the story took his mind off the frenzied pace of the cart chase.

'The late King Jacques (God bless him!) had not two, as is generally believed, but three sons; Lewis, Louis and Louie-Louie. Fearing that either the Army or the Clergy would try to brainwash his heir and lead him astray from the course that Jacques had planned for France, he, for I cannot imagine what reason, decided to have the boy smuggled out of the country and raised as a simple sheep farmer in Britain, always with the intention that his eldest son would come back and take over the kingdom in the hour of need.'

'Something clearly went wrong with the plan, as, when the hour of need came, no one remembered Lewis and so he stayed tending the flocks while Louis became King. Then, as we all know, Louie-Louie had him kidnapped and stole his identity-'

'Under duress!' interrupted Louie-Louie, who figuring that if Louis made a comeback as King (which now seemed possible) it would be best to distance himself from his part in the conspiracy.

'Which is why Beowulf and my good self came to France-'

'In order to remove Louie-Louie and reinstate Louis, at the request of my Uncle?' interrupted Amarilla.

'It's a bit more complicated than that,' said Roscow, but before he had time to explain Pedro shouted,

'Look out!'

Franke and Axel were not at all keen to try 'special tactics,' but then again, they were not at all keen to argue the toss with Heinrich. He outlined the plan, shouting over the rumble of the cart wheels like this,

'We are on a straight, leading to a hairpin; the road below comes back underneath us. You must leap from the fast cart, slide down the cliff face and then jump out into the road and shoot the driver. Even if you miss, you will succeed in halting their progress as the cart will definitely be slowed if it has to run over your bodies. You must do this for the glory of France!'

Franke looked at Axel. Axel looked at Franke. They both looked mutinously at Heinrich who produced his sword. Franke and Axel jumped. It was not as bad, jumping from a speeding donkey cart, as they had supposed and they both managed not to injure themselves in the fall. 'Sliding down the cliff', which sounds easy, when you say it, proved to be rather more demanding. Both guards tried hard to give the concept their best shot, however they were both too afraid of falling to really let go and slide. 'Stuttering down the cliff' would have been a more accurate description, and their hesitant progress angered Heinrich who had leaned out of the back of the cart to shout directions. He was on the point of ordering the other guards to start shooting _at them,_ when, fortuitously, they slipped and began to roll down the cliff.

'That's more like it!' he yelled encouragingly, 'go on; get down there!'

Franke and Axel eventually landed, battered, bruised but still breathing on the roadway below. Surprisingly, they had retained their weapons and what could charitably be described as 'their wits.' They dragged themselves into an upright position, just in time to see Banshee and Beowulf's cart bearing down on them. Due to the extreme speed of Banshee and Pedro's reckless driving skills, they had only the two or three minutes it would take for the cart to reach them in which to get ready, aim and bring the chase to an immediate end by shooting the driver. As it was, they both shot early and missed; reloaded, aimed again, and missed, contemplated reloading, realised that there was not enough time for another shot; thought about Heinrich's plan of getting run over to slow down the cart, decided against that and threw themselves against the cliff wall as Beowulf and the Louis' trundled by.

'Get down to the next level! If you miss again, jump on board,' screamed Heinrich furiously as his cart passed the cowering guards, who obediently scurried across the road in between Heinrich's cart and Eugene D'Orbergene's and, once again, hurled themselves down the cliff face.

'If they fail,' I have a plan, shouted D'Orbergene to Heinrich, 'It may be crazy, but it just might work!'

Heinrich shuddered and hoped that the two guards would fall awkwardly and block the road. In the meantime he contended himself by shouting, 'Go faster!' at Rousseau.

'Ees a beet dangerous, thees jumpeeng een thee road,' observed Pedro to Beowulf.

'Just continue to drive, we will escape them in the town,' said Beowulf.

'Eef we make eet!'

'Where was I?' asked Roscow, 'I remember! I was explaining that we came to France, possibly to help Louis and depose Louie-Louie at the request of Marshall Gney; but we might also have been going to depose Louie-Louie, in order to annoy the Pope and please the Duke of Jutland; however, that means that we might also have to consider _not_ deposing Louie-Louie on the grounds that not deposing Louie-Louie would really infuriate the Duke of Jutland, against whom Beowulf understandably holds a grudge. If that wasn't complicated enough, when we got here the Britons asked us to depose both Louis' and restore Lewis here to his rightful throne-'

'Which is what you _are_ doing, isn't it?' asked Amarilla, anxiously looking at Lewis; who did seem to be doing a good job of keeping up with the conversation, which was being held in English for his benefit.'

'Is it?' demanded both Louis' anxiously, looking at Roscow. At this point Roscow realised what an error it had been to start this particular conversation. He shrugged,

'I don't really know,' he explained truthfully, 'does it really matter who we pick?'

He was mightily relieved to be interrupted by Pedro shouting 'Look out!' again.

Franke and Axel landed on the next stretch of road with a loud thump that would have cheered Heinrich greatly if they had not immediately begun to move.

'The fools are still alive,' he muttered, as his hopes of having a human roadblock receded.

Franke was limping badly and Axel had hurt his arm, neither had managed to keep hold of their crossbows. They did not look as if they would present any kind of challenge to the cart of Beowulf which had just completed another hairpin and was clomping towards them with all the speed of a rather tired donkey pulling a very heavy load.

This was not the case. Showing a degree of resourcefulness that had not been there before, that could be attributed either to their fear of Heinrich, or a blow to the head; they began to pile rocks up in the road.

''Ees rocks!' shouted Pedro, 'What shall we do?'

'Hit them,' said Beowulf calmly, thinking to himself that this was one of those times when a belief in fatalistic determinism and the general unimportance of human life was a great comfort.

'They're going to hit them,' shouted Heinrich triumphantly, 'Get in there, boys!'

Axel and Franke, who had stayed at their post until the last moment, determinedly building the rock pile, threw themselves out of the way. Franke, remembering Heinrich's admonition, grabbed hold of the edge of the cart and pulled himself upwards. Axel mistakenly jumped the other way and crashed down the cliff face towards the next straight on the road.

Franke pulled mightily and found himself face to face with Louie-Louie,

'Your Highness!' he gasped, 'rescue is at hand!'

In the light of Roscow's revelations, Louie-Louie couldn't decide whether it was more dangerous to be rescued than captured; however, before he could decide; Banshee dodged, and the cart hit the pile of rocks. The impact made a terrible crunching sound and the left hand wheel came loose and began to judder. All the people in the cart were thrown down into its centre, apart from Beowulf and Pedro who held on to the driving seat. Franke was thrown up into the air. He soared over Beowulf's cart and landed directly in front of Heinrich's. Quicksilver was forced to swerve and Heinrich's cart also hit the stones, but with slightly less of an impact.

'I've seen enough of this incompetence!' shouted D'Orbergene from the second cart, 'I'm going for it!' He began to enact his plan.

In the cart, the situation had deteriorated.

'Thief,' shouted Louis, pummelling his brother, as the cart bumped along.

'It wasn't my fault,' wailed Louie-Louie, half heartedly fighting back, 'It is not fair that you got all the stuff, just because you were born first.'

'But he wasn't born first,' argued Amarilla, who was trying to crawl out from under the struggling Louis', 'Lewis was.'

In the panic following the bump everyone had resorted to their native French.

'Speak English, please!' pleaded Lewis who had extended a hand to Amarilla, helping her back to a seat.

'Thee wheel, I theenk 'ee come off soon!' warned Pedro.

'Just drive,' laughed Beowulf, 'we'll probably live!'

'Look at that!' said Roscow pointing behind them, as he saw D'Orbergene put his plan into action.

D'Orbergene was a true 'man's man.' He was a daredevil; he was reckless, wild and foolish. He was these things because that was how men, who impressed other men, impressed other men. He knew how things were done and he did them. He was no lily-livered, backsliding, yellow-bellied, weak-at-the-knees, half-hearted milksop. He saw his chance and he took it. In this particular case what he did was particularly foolish, although it would surely have won the approbation of many manly, like minded males who were just as stupid as he was.

Firstly, he steered his donkey to the cliff edge, where he cut the donkey free, enabling the terrified beast to stagger away from the precipice and into the path of Cardinal Bull's cart. D'Orbergene had lined his cart up to try the 'sliding down the cliff' stunt, but this time in a cart. Most of the other guards in the wagon had the sense to bail out before he took them over the precipice, so only D'Orbergene and a pike man, who had a bad case of hero worship and an underdeveloped sense of danger, were still in it as it slid over the edge and accelerated down the nearly sheer rock face beneath.

'This is the way to get ahead!' cried D'Orbergene.

'Weeeee!' yelled the pike man whose name was Giscard.

D'Orbergene was correct in one important sense; he was now getting ahead of Beowulf's cart: but in a much more important sense, he was wrong. For 'this' to be 'the way', 'this' would need to be somehow controllable, or perhaps even, 'survivable'. As it was, the direct effect of steering the cart over the edge was to have it plummet, at an ever increasing velocity down the cliff face. The wheels, bounced, the frame shuddered, the structure rattled but by some means held together until it hit the stretch of track below; here the horizontal plane of the road acted as a dynamic emergency brake and ripped the wheels from the cart.

'Oh,' moaned D'Orbergene.

'Weeeee!' shouted Giscard, whose foolishness seemed to be of the resilient kind.

For a moment it looked as if D'Orbergene's mad plan had paid off, as the cart slowed, slithering across the mountain track, promising to block the road.

'Aha!' he shouted triumphantly, as the cart teetered on the edge. He leaned back towards the hill in the vain belief his weight could slow the cart's edge bound progress.

'Weeeee!' squeaked Giscard as the cart just failed to hold and slid over the edge again. From then on it was a lost cause; the cart careered rapidly down each of the remaining slopes, hitting each straight of the road, cracking and buckling it's structure, before crashing off the road altogether into the woods on the outskirts of town.

Beowulf watched it disappear with a smirk of satisfaction and listened carefully to enjoy hearing one more 'Weeeee!' drifting up through the night air, before the much louder sounds of carnage and destruction.

'That's one third of the pursuit accounted for,' he told Pedro.

'Thee wheeel, eet ees just steel weeth us,' Pedro observed, 'wee may not bee compleetlee deestroyed after all!'

Heartened by this favourable report, the argument in the back of the cart kicked off again.

'Lewis is the rightful King of France!' declared Amarilla with passion, 'he is the first born, and he was his Father's choice!'

'We've never heard of him, and he can't even speak French!' declared Louis with contempt.

'I think you fancy him!' added Louie-Louie with more than a trace of jealousy.

'I think you're right, brother!' said Louis in an unprecedented show of fraternal accord.

'You two; be quiet!' ordered Lewis, 'if Amarilla says that I am the King of France, then that's how it is.' He smiled at her in what he hoped was a winning way.

'Really!' sneered Louis in disgust.

Meanwhile, the cart had creaked on and turned another hairpin; this left them still pursued by Heinrich and Bull who were gaining on them due to the damaged wheel. Also, in front of them was Axel, who had somehow survived his last slide down the cliff and now stood facing the oncoming cart. Something must have happened to him on his rocky descent down the mountainside; he pulled himself to his feet, like a gladiator. He glared at the oncoming cart and let out a feral growl,

'This is for Franke!' he shouted and began to limp towards the cart. His appearance frightened Banshee, who swerved away from him, swinging the back of the cart right to the edge of the narrow track. Pedro straightened the frightened donkey, but Axel had managed to grab hold of her bridle and was trying to climb onto her back. At the same time Heinrich's cart had come very close up behind.

'We've got them,' he shouted excitedly, 'prepare to board!'

The guards had swarmed to the front of the cart and were looking to jump across.

'Rescue me!' shouted Louie-Louie, standing up.

'Sit down,' said Roscow, who had jumped to his feet and moved to the back of the cart, ready to repel the guards.

'Get down,' shouted Beowulf to Roscow, who dived into the body of the cart. He was just in time to do this, as Beowulf, in a desperate move had wrenched the reins from Pedro, and in a move similar to D'Orbergene had steered Banshee off the side of the road.

Fortunately the off road area, at this point, had slightly widened out and instead of the earlier cliffs there was merely a steep, scrub and boulder filled slope to navigate. The cart skidded, bumping over the rough terrain causing Axel to lose his grip and fall. Banshee whinnied with relief. Axel, grunted, bounced and was left behind.

Heinrich had chosen to follow Beowulf, but the uneven ground made it impossible for him to get close enough to enable his guards to jump across. They were however, still able to keep in close pursuit, as Beowulf steered the cart round in a gradual semi circle, aiming to cut the corner and rejoin the road on the next straight.

Bull, who had not followed this manoeuvre, was still on the road, and because of the better surface, was now travelling far quicker than Beowulf. He ordered his driver to accelerate and their donkey (named 'Ironhead' for his stubbornness and determination) surged forward trying to cut Beowulf off and prevent him regaining the road. As they swung around the second to last hairpin before the village it was apparent that Ironhead had the edge in speed and was going to be able to cut off Banshee's path to the road.

'Go faster in the name of all that is Holy!' shouted Bull in anticipation, 'Let us crush the unbeliever. Let us swat this damnable insect like the louse he is. Go on, go on!'

Ironhead, enthused by the frenzied Cardinal and his own natural inclination, dug deep and produced even greater effort. He was (as far as a small donkey pulling a heavy cart can be) flying.

Beowulf who had seen this danger and realised that his path on the road was going to be blocked, countered by pulling hard on the reins.

'Make him stop!' he shouted at Pedro.

'Thee wheel!' cried Pedro in warning. As Beowulf and Pedro had pulled the reins to slow Banshee, the cart had slid and the loose wheel had hit a rock and finally abandoned its valiant effort to stay with the cart. With a splintering sound it separated from the axel and bounced off down the mountainside. The cart slowed and slid further, causing Bull's cart, which had kept going, to speed past it. Heinrich had also been forced to break heavily in order to not run into the back of Beowulf's cart.

The three carts were now lined up on the straight approaching the last bend before the village. Bull's cart, which was laden with guards, was first and travelling very quickly (Ironhead having, as it were, 'got the bit between his teeth). Beowulf's cart came next. Banshee was obviously labouring to keep the heavy, one wheeled cart moving in something approaching a straight line. The people in the back had all lost their balance again as the cart bumped and lurched along. Heinrich's cart was just behind them, but moving much more capably. Heinrich, Brutus and the other guards were massing ready to board the injured cart as soon as it was possible to do so. It was at this moment that Naiman decided to intervene.

He had followed the chase down the mountainside, marvelling at the reckless antics of Franke and Axel and the enormous stupidity of D'Orbergene. If he had not been working he would have viewed it all as a splendid entertainment, however, as he was working, he was alert, focussed and dangerous. He had been delighted to find that Burro Rapido was, although not in any way at all a racehorse, easily able to keep pace with the overloaded donkey carts. He had been able to remain discreetly behind Bull, conserving his mount's strength, until Ironhead's great surge of speed had surprised him and left them behind.

This had left him ideally placed for what he had in mind. He was now just behind Heinrich's cart that had slowed significantly to avoid running into the back of Beowulf, as both carts had rejoined the road.

'Go Burro,' he whispered, and the sprightly mule had trotted around the side of Heinrich's cart. He drew alongside,

'Good evening!' he shouted at Heinrich, 'And a very fine evening it is too!'

Heinrich stared at the stranger in disbelief. Heinrich was involved in a wild downhill chase on a treacherous mountain track and an odd looking fellow in black had just ridden up beside him and wished him a good evening?

He was still thinking it over when the stranger produced a small hand crossbow and shot him in the chest.

Heinrich stared in surprise at the bolt that had embedded itself in the armour on his chest. Then, without a word he fell backwards into Brutus and Rousseau, causing the driver to lose the reins. Without guidance, Quicksilver veered uphill and off the track. As she ran on, crashing through the rocks and scrub the guards tumbled out of the cart until finally it overturned and she stopped. Brutus, who had fallen out on the first bump sat up and spoke to the prone figure nearest him.

'That was close! I thought I was a goner there!'

Heinrich, who was lying very still, had no answer to that.

Naiman rode on and was about to grab the back of Beowulf's cart when he was distracted by what was happening ahead.

After she had knocked out Gretza the Angel, Grendel's Mother had sat for a long time and thought. She had pursued Beowulf half way across the known world and she was determined that this time, considering how far she had come and how lucky she had been to pick up his trail again; she must, finally, kill him. To that end she had tried to anticipate his actions. She was aware that he was intending to go into the Monastery and she had seen the carts being prepared to go down the hill. As it seemed likely that Beowulf must go that way, she had gone down the hill before him. She had found a smaller, steep path that ran directly down from the Monastery, through the forest, to the village. It rejoined the road, just before the last bend. There, she had made some preparations and settled down to wait.

As the evening had gone on she had begun to become impatient; nothing seemed to be happening; perhaps he had changed his plan and would not come this way? Her anxiety had grown and she was close to abandoning her hiding place; but then she had smelt a faint aroma of smoke. She smiled to herself, he was on his way. She waited patiently for a few minutes and was then surprised to hear voices behind her; some people were coming down the path.

'The Monastery's burning pretty nicely now!' she had heard a man say.

'Yes,' agreed a woman, 'it is a pretty sight! Lewis will have to get it rebuilt once he is King. We're going to need the money, aren't we Dorf?'

'This money is very, very heavy!' asserted a second man, 'Why can't Caractacus carry some?'

'Because otherwise I shall become tired and stop being so brainy,' replied the first man, 'let's go and find a place to drink until Beowulf brings in the new King.'

'I don't trust him,' said the woman.

'I don't blame you,' thought Grendel's Mother as she watched the three Britons, one of whom was carrying a large, heavy sack, walk past her hiding place and along the last stretch of road into the village.

A few moments after that she had seen the carts and readied her ambush.

Grendel's Mother had prepared a trap that comprised of a huge, old moss covered log. It was clearly too heavy for a man to move, but she felt that she just might be able to manage it. She had hauled it up to a ridge that overlooked the last hairpin bend. Her intention was to push the log up and over the lip of a small depression, where it was now balanced, causing the log to roll down the hill so that it would either crush the cart completely, or at least sweep it off the road. Then she would be able to confront and destroy the hateful Beowulf. As soon as she had seen his cart leading the way down the mountain, she had bent her back and begun to push the massive log into position so that she could release it. She strained as she edged the huge weight up to the point where she could let go.

For a moment she panicked. It was too heavy! She could not power the log over the edge. She looked over at the carts again. He was still coming. She would have to find the strength. She turned her back to the log and pushed her body underneath, using her powerful thighs to push and edge the log up the slope. She was sweating heavily. She concentrated all her energy and hatred; as a reward, she felt the log move a fraction. She pushed her aching legs and back harder and, little by little, she lifted the log to the lip.

She paused for breath, with the weight of the log resting on her back. She could not now turn around and look at the track without letting the log slide back and so she listened, waiting for the sound of the lead donkey. When she heard it coming; that would be the moment. Then, she would strike.

Grendel's Mother clearly was not able to see Bull overtake Beowulf, or realise that Ironhead had greatly increased his speed; and so she heaved the log over the edge of the depression at the sound of Bull's rather than Beowulf's cart. In all other respects her plan went perfectly; the giant log bounced down the slope and struck Bull's cart a huge crushing blow that ripped it away from Ironhead (who swung around and fell) and cleanly removed it from the road. The cart crashed through the trees, shedding guards as it fell. She turned just in time to see it disappear into the woods.

Beowulf's Mother let out a roar of triumph that died in her throat as she looked back at the road and saw Beowulf's one-wheeled cart still creeping down the road towards the bend. The sight of this paralysed her as she tried to take it in.

'How?' she asked herself, and then realised that the question was irrelevant; _he was still there!_

She let out another roar and began to run down the hill towards the cart.

It was this sight that had distracted Naiman. He slowed Burro Rapido as the hugely angry Troll charged at the cart.

'Save us! Eet ees a feend from Hell!' wailed Pedro, as Grendel's Mother approached the cart.

'Not again,' was Beowulf's response; but he was already moving. After a quick glance downhill, he decided that there was some chance of the cart surviving the drop to the next straight patch of road, whereas there was no chance at all of defeating the enraged Troll. He decided to emulate D'Orbergene, and so he cut the reins and freed the cart.

Offered freedom and faced with an onrushing Troll, Banshee turned and fled back up the road, picking her way through the fallen guards and pieces of wreckage from Heinrich's cart. Beowulf's one wheeled cart rolled on, but did not have sufficient speed to go over the edge. It came to rest just at the side of the road overlooking the drop.

Beowulf groaned in frustration.

Pedro shook with fear.

Grendel's Mother kept on coming and hit the cart so hard that she and it were flung down the slope.

'Hold tight!' he shouted, 'this is going to hurt!'

Chapter 16

In which an unlikely alliance brings the Marshall to an old acquaintance. There is carnage in the wreckage and funny goings on in the forest. Beowulf thinks (incorrectly) that he's had an easy ride to victory. There is a threatening moment (or two) and, in a timely manner, Amarilla gets stuck in.

'The hardest thing is staying resolute!' declared the newly saved and more recently lapsed Cardinal Mascarpone to the trees. His experience in the fire had left him breathless and he had been unable to keep up in the frantic scramble after the Louis'.

'If I were able to stay resolute then anything would be possible!'

He waved his recently plundered bottle of wine around and wondered if anyone was listening. He thought not. The forest was quiet.

'I should have chased after the King, but, alas,' he paused, in order to better recollect his reasons and avoid falling over; 'I am not a runner! I am a man of God! I have a _higher_ calling!'

At this point he looked guiltily around (in case God actually was listening) before carrying on,

'I am not made for running; or for fighting, or for intriguing. I am prepared for the simple pleasures of the religious life; the wine, the food, the sleeping! Let Cardinal Bull go trotting about, deciding Kings and things, while all the time he is sucking up to the Pope. I'll have none of it! I shall sit here and have a drink!'

Having temporarily and virtuously run out of breath, he did just as he had said; he sat down, righteously, yet rather heavily, on a tree stump and had a swig from his bottle. He was very shocked when he felt something hard and metallic against his back and heard a voice whisper,

'Keep very still!'

After finding that the Marshall was still alive, but not very mobile, Emsie had tried to help the old man to walk, but they had not got very far. Emsie was convinced that this was only because the old soldier could not take orders from a girl. If they moved together, as she had endeavoured to explain, she could hold him up, but if he moved without co-ordinating with her, then she could not. He did not co-ordinate, however hard she tried to organise it, and so they fell down. He didn't seem to mind this. In fact, he seemed to find it quite amusing and Emsie had begun to suspect that he had enjoyed a fair bit to drink at the party before the fire, escape and rescue. She was frustrated that he would not take things seriously; however, he was Amarilla's Uncle and she had promised to rescue him. Even so, she did have half a mind to leave him to sober up in the forest and come back and get him in the morning.

'Wait here,' she had said, 'I'll see if I can find some help,'

'Look out for the Cardinal's men,' he had replied, suddenly serious, 'they will want to get Louie-Louie back in charge and they won't be fussy how they do it.'

Emsie intended to be careful and she told him this. She then set off, creeping through the dark until she had spotted the Cardinal, who had obviously abandoned (or been abandoned by) the Royal pursuit, unsteadily making his way through the wood.

'He could help move the Marshall,' she thought, 'with one of us on either side we could make our way to the chicken tent at the carnival and hide out there; Grandpa might even help, especially with it being the Marshall.'

She looked around the darkening forest for some kind of weapon with which to threaten Mascarpone; but then she remembered she had her comb. Clutching it tightly she had crept up behind him. It was this fine metal comb that was now held roughly against the Cardinal's back.

'I am a man of God,' said Mascarpone, in what he hoped was a confident tone.

'I think that is very much a matter of opinion,' replied Emsie, 'but if you're right then you won't be afraid to die.'

Mascarpone considered this.

'I was recently, only this very night, spared from a fire. I think that God would rather I was alive, just for the moment, if you don't mind. Perhaps I have a purpose.'

'Perhaps you do,' Emsie agreed, 'how do you feel about helping the sick and injured?'

'It would be an opportunity that I have not often fully availed myself of; I don't have any medical knowledge and I've heard it said that I'm lacking in compassion.'

'Come on then; there's still time to improve.'

As the cart rolled over, Pedro was flung clear. Luckily, he landed at the edge of the slope, where he was able to watch the cart as it bounced and rolled down the rock strewn slope.

'Ouch,' he said, 'That weel hurt tereeblee!'

Somehow Beowulf had tumbled into the body of the cart, together with the three Louis', while Amarilla and Roscow had fallen out. They had each landed a little further down the slope from Pedro. They had both been fortunate enough to be flung from the cart before it had gone on to pick up speed. Pedro watched it somersaulting down the slope, with Grendel's Mother still grasping its wooden frame tightly.

As it hit the road below with a colossal bang, she too was separated from the cart and fell face down on the roadway. The cart slowed. For a moment Pedro entertained the optimistic notion that the cart would come to a standstill on the path and there would be time to rescue those within, but this was clearly not the case. He watched helplessly as it slid over the edge and went crashing into the forest that lay just to the east of the village.

Pedro was going to get to his feet and go and help Roscow and Amarilla, when a black clad man, to whom he had earlier hired a mule, trotted up to him and stopped.

'Do you think they could survive?' he asked.

'I don't theenk so, but aneetheeng ees posseeble. Eef God weels eet; then, perhaps,' Pedro said.

'I shall go and see. It would be most unfortunate if they were _all_ dead,' said the man, who then trotted on down the road until he reached the point where the cart had gone into the forest; there he dismounted and, leaving the mule, set off into the woods on foot.

Pedro looked up the slope and saw that some of the guards who had survived the earlier crashes were now beginning to pick themselves up and regroup.

'Oh oh,' he said, 'time to go!'

He set off down the slope to where Roscow was lying.

Inside the cart Beowulf and the three Louis' were being shaken and battered. At each painful bounce they were thrown into each other and against the wooden body of the cart. To take his mind off the pain (and the possibility of imminent destruction, injury or death), Beowulf marvelled at the perseverance of Grendel's Mother. He tried to say,

'Vengeance across half a continent,' to Lewis, but with the thumping of the falling cart it came out as,

'Vung-cr-cross-hafcontent!' to which the confused Lewis replied,

'In English! Please!'

Beowulf laughed. The Louis' shouted. The cart clattered on until with a final smash it hit a very stout tree and shattered to pieces, dropping Beowulf and the Louis' on the forest floor.

Lewis was flung directly against the tree, hitting his head. He fell back into the clearing and lay still. Louis rolled over a number of times, hit his shoulder against a rock, cried out and then passed out. Louie-Louie and Beowulf landed in a ball. They rolled over each other until they came to a stop in a clump of thick ferns. Louie-Louie was out of breath and lay still, gasping for air. Beowulf, however, being fitter and shaped like a bowling ball, rolled over again, jumped to his feet and then surveyed the unconscious and semi conscious claimants of the French throne. He quickly checked himself for injury, looked up and down the forest for pursuers and, hardly believing his luck, checked the fallen Louis' again. With a chuckle of surprised appreciation, which he could only dedicate to the curious nature of fate, he observed,

'Perfection!' and then he drew his knife.

Emsie, Mascarpone and Gney were in a heap again. Exasperated, Emsie pushed them aside and stood up. She observed the men, both of whom lay giggling on the floor.

'You're supposed to be a pillar of the church,' said Gney, who had finished off Mascarpone's bottle, ('for pain relief purposes') 'and yet you can't stand up!'

Mascarpone laughed,

'The Marshall is the right hand of the King. It's lucky you aren't his right leg; you can't stand up!'

'We both can't stand up!' they chorused happily.

Emsie was very patient, although the alcohol induced bonding of church and state was severely trying her tolerance.

'We'll try again,' she said.

Amarilla meanwhile, was sitting up.

'Are you hokay?' asked Pedro, who had recaptured Banshee and climbed down towards her,

'Hokay!' laughed a semi conscious Roscow, who was lying a few feet away.

'I think so,' replied Amarilla and then she looked down at the path the cart had taken, and exclaimed, 'Lewis!'

Pedro followed her gaze down the slope, across the road, past the prone body of Grendel's Mother and into the trees.

'He may be hokay too.' Pedro said kindly, although he inadvertently shook his head as he spoke. He gestured at Roscow, 'we weel take heem and go and look. Geeve me a hand.'

With Amarilla's help, Pedro was able to pull Roscow across Banshee's back. The big man seemed to be stunned, but every so often his eyes would open and he would say,

'Hi ham hokay, how har you? Har you hokay?'

''Ee 'as 'eet 'ees 'ead,' said Pedro knowingly, 'or 'ee would not be speakeeng like thees.'

Amarilla nodded and they set off down the slope.

'What are you going to do?' Louie-Louie asked Beowulf nervously, looking warily at his knife.

'Nothing to worry you!' said Beowulf cheerfully.

'But aren't you going to kill me and replace me either with my brother or the large Briton,' he said, ' that's what the people who hired you want, isn't it.'

'That's as maybe,' conceded Beowulf, 'my old friend Marshall Gney would like the world to be rid of you and for your brother to reassume his rightful place. The Britons have already paid heavily to have you and your brother removed, to be replaced by him.' Beowulf gestured at the unconscious Lewis,

'Even the vile old Duke of Jutland would like you dead; I'm not entirely sure why, but it seems that he would like to spite the Pope. So I could kill you and replace you with Louis, winning rewards from the Marshall and the Duke, or split you open to make way for Lewis and impress the Britons. I have options.'

Beowulf paused and Louie-Louie shuddered.

'However,' he continued, 'I have decided, for reasons of my own, that even though it will please the Pope (which is a disappointment), and even though it will raise the enmity of the French, the Britons and the horribly dangerous Duke of Jutland, that what I will do is this: I will despatch Louis and Lewis and leave you alive, even if you are a chicken livered, reactionary, subservient, fundamentalist fool. Louie-Louie I will return you as the King of France!'

It took Louie-Louie a few seconds to take all this in.

'You plan to kill them,' he queried, 'and spare me?'

'Ridiculous isn't it?' said Beowulf, 'who would have thought that spite was a better motive than avarice or expediency.'

'Isn't there a way with no killing?' asked Louie-Louie timorously. He was suddenly aware of an impulse to stick up for his brothers; at the same time he also realised that he was most unwilling to contemplate changing places with them.

Beowulf looked Louie-Louie up and down in simple disbelief.

'No killing?' he laughed, 'and you a King? Please!'

At that point Naiman, who had stealthily crept up on the pair sprang into the clearing,

'Traitor!' he shouted, 'You are to spare Louis!'

Beowulf appeared to consider this,

'Shan't!' he replied.

Naiman drew his knife.

'Show us the way to go home

We're drunk and we want to have a sleep

We're staggering around in the forest

And we just can't keep our feet!'

Emsie had her work cut out for her. She was trying to force a drunken Cardinal to help support a drunken Marshall, who had broken his leg, and neither was helping her at all. She had tried for a while to put the Cardinal on the Marshall's left, while she supported his right, however this did not seem to work and after much fumbling, stumbling and general staggering around they had settled with Emsie in the middle, the Marshall to her left (allowing him to lean in from his sound right leg and trail the left behind) and Mascarpone on her right. There was no logical reason why this arrangement should have worked, as it involved the much smaller Emsie supporting the two large and inebriated men, however it did. When they adopted this formation they moved, if she tried to change it; they stopped.

The singing also seemed to help. If they sang they moved quicker, stood straighter and (of greatest importance to Emsie) they put less weight on her and so she had encouraged them to sing and walk. She was now trying to stop them (singing, not walking) as they had made their way out of the forest and into the carnival area, and she was trying not to attract attention. This was not working as Gney and Mascarpone, who had never agreed about anything before, found a great common purpose in annoying the girl who was helping them.

'Ssh!' said Emsie, 'People are sleeping.'

'Yeah! SSH!' shouted Gney, 'Steeple are peopling!'

'Yeah! SSH!' shouted Mascarpone, who then laughed, 'You said that sheephole are people.'

They had to stop.

'I didn't say that peepholes are sheep!' argued the Marshall (quite accurately).

'I didn't say that you said that. I said that you said that sheepish is....I can't remember what you said, but you said it!'

'I probably did.'

'Please be quiet.'

'We are being quiet.'

'You're not.'

'We're not what?' demanded Gney earnestly, 'What are we not?'

'Being quiet!' hissed Emsie, 'You are not being quiet, you are going to wake everyone up and my Grandpa is-'

'-Going to be as mad as hell!' shouted Grandpa, who had emerged from the chicken tent to find Emsie in the clutches of two elderly drunks.

'What do you think that you are doing? I promised your Mother that I'd look after you and keep you out of trouble. I train you, give you an honest job, take you on to see the world, trust you with the responsibility for business and you desert me and go out drinking with these old fools, leaving the cats to steal the chicken and me to face ruin! What are you thinking of?'

At this point Emsie noticed Albert the cat lying contentedly by a pile of chicken bones. He seemed to have put on quite a bit of weight in the evening.

She was upset. She wanted to explain that she had only left the tent for a while, and she had only done that because her new friend, Amarilla, who was actually nearly a Princess, had really needed her help. She was, Emsie would have explained, despite being nearly a Princess, very unhappy and she had needed Emsie's help, and this was the only reason Emsie had left the tent; the only reason! And she had helped her friend. She wasn't quite sure how, but they had rescued someone and then people had been going to hurt Amarilla's Uncle and she had saved him, but he had been hurt and so she had tried to get help, but she had ended up with the drunken Cardinal and that was what she had been doing. She had really, really done her best!

However, as often happened when she tried to speak in her own defence, her normal articulacy deserted her,

'Gluh,' she said, stifling a sob.

'Don't you 'Gluh' me, my girl!' growled Grandpa with the carefree, self righteous ease of the lazy, 'I'm not going to be 'Gluh-ed' by young girls and old drunkards. This is a disgrace, an absolute disgrace! If your Mother could see you now-'

At this point the Marshall, who had been listening in amusement interrupted,

'Don't I know you, Corporal?' he asked.

Emsie's Grandpa looked him over and then stared in amazement,

'Marshall Gney? Here with my Emsie' he asked.

'No other,' replied the Marshall, 'the girl rescued me and brought me here; so stop shouting at her'.

'Gluh,' said Grandpa.

'I think you mean, "Gluh, Sir!"' added Mascarpone helpfully.

Pedro, Banshee, Roscow and Amarilla had made their way to the spot where the cart had left the road and entered the forest.

'You go and see. I weel wait weeth heem,' said Pedro to Amarilla, bringing Banshee to a halt.

'Hokay' mumbled Roscow dreamily from the donkey's back.

'Hokay, I mean, I will go and look,' said Amarilla, 'I hope they are okay.'

'They weel bee fine,' said Pedro as positively as he could manage, 'eet ees just a leetle drop weeth manee trees and rocks and theengs to heet.'

Amarilla climbed off the road and down into the trees.

'They are probablee all dead,' Pedro confided in Banshee, 'but eet ees not for the likes of me to break thee hearts of thee beautiful young girls.'

'Hokay,' agreed Roscow, who slid of Banshee's back and settled on the path.

Naiman had all the advantages; not only was he a trained and deadly assassin, he was bigger and stronger than Beowulf, he had an element of surprise and he had not already been dropped down a hillside in a cart. He ducked under Beowulf's block and tackled him to the floor, causing Beowulf to drop his knife. As they fell to the floor he sensed a movement and was able to avoid Beowulf's knee from causing him any damage by twisting away. They had hit the ground hard and this impact allowed Beowulf to pull away from Naiman and to attempt to roll away, however the assassin had a firm grip on the front of Beowulf's tunic and he pushed down, pinning Beowulf to the floor while he bought his knife hand up.

'Not this time,' said Naiman, as Beowulf tried to roll the other way, 'you need to follow the plan your Father sent you!'

'He's not my Father, at least, not definitely' said Beowulf, who had stopped trying to roll, 'and if you kill me, his plan will fail.'

'I don't think so,' said Naiman, 'now that you have all the Louis'; I can kill you, finish off Louie-Louie and the Briton. That will leave Louis as King and I can blame you for the murders. The Pope will have been crossed and the Duke will have his way. He won't appear to have caused the problem and he can play France and the Papacy off against each other in the war that is to come.'

Beowulf considered this.

While Beowulf considered this, Louie-Louie who didn't like the sound of being 'finished off' had picked up a tree branch and crept behind Naiman.

'Die you evil murderer!' he shouted, somewhat dramatically, and swung the branch.

As she picked her way through the trees Amarilla was aware that she was being followed. When she looked back she could see that a growing number of guards were following her down the slope. She hesitated briefly and then decided that it did not matter; she was the fiancée of whichever Louis was still alive (if any) and she was determined to find and help Lewis. A thought came to her; the guards were all French, she was the niece of Marshall Gney.

'Follow me!' she shouted, 'we need to rescue the King!'

The branch struck Naiman squarely in the back of the head.

'Take that you foreign interloper!' shouted Louie-Louie.

'Ouch!' said Naiman, but, much to Louie-Louie's shock and disappointment, he did not collapse. Instead, he very swiftly planted his knife in the ground and grabbed the branch as Louie-Louie tried another swing. Still holding onto Beowulf, who appeared to be winded, he jerked the branch from Louie-Louie's hand and deftly tripped him with it. As Louie-Louie fell into the dirt, Naiman flung the branch away and regained his knife.

'Neat,' observed Beowulf.

'Amateurs,' replied Naiman, 'no match for a trained professional. Now where were we?'

Beowulf grinned,

'You had just outlined how you were going to complete your mission without my help and I was just about to point out that, as that was the case, then it was probably best if I completed my mission as directed. After all, I'm quite attached to being alive.'

Naiman considered this,

'You are saying that, despite what you said before, that if I let you live, you will honour our agreement, kill Louie-Louie and the Briton, leaving Louis on the throne as the Duke requires?'

Louie-Louie let out a brief whine.

'Your having the upper hand implies that kind of sacrifice,' Beowulf agreed.

'That is shockingly immoral,' said Naiman serenely.

'Of course,' said Beowulf.

'It is an idea,' said Naiman, 'however the final part of my contract from your possible Father was to despatch you; and I think it unlikely I'll get a better chance than this.'

Again he raised his knife arm.

'Do you have any last words?'

'That is so like him,' said Beowulf in a wistful tone that betrayed just a tinge of admiration, 'very thorough!'

And then he spat.

'I think we're lost,' declared Caractacus Carruthers in exasperation, 'we haven't found the village, we've come off the path and we are mislaid in this stupid wood!'

'And I so wanted a drink,' said Boo Dikka.

'Ungh,' grunted Dorf, who had fallen behind under the weight of the bag of gold, 'is someone else going to take a turn?'

Caractacus and Boo ignored him and looked through the trees.

'There are guards about,' he said.

'And we need to find the village to meet Beowulf.'

'I think it was back the other way,' said Caractacus.

'Is no one going to help me,' moaned Dorf.

They ignored him. Boo Dikka peered into the gloom.

'Isn't that Amarilla?' asked Boo, as she spotted a girl quickly climbing down through the trees.

'I think it is, but she is very dirty,' observed Caractacus, 'shall we follow her?'

'I think so,' said Boo, 'Come on Dorf, don't lag behind!'

'Ungh,' repeated Dorf.

Beowulf was an accomplished spitter. He had put a lot of effort into learning to spit very well. His spit hit Naiman in the eyes and created just enough of a surprise for him to twist and roll away.

Naiman furiously wiped his eyes, while taking a defensive stance. Beowulf regained his feet on the edge of the clearing. He scanned the clearing for weapons, or means of escape. His knife was behind Naiman. Louie-Louie's branch had been flung off in the bushes. All three of the Louis' lay where they had fallen. He shrugged,

'Not even a rock,' he observed.

'This time,' hissed Naiman, 'you will die.'

He advanced cautiously with his knife ready.

'If you run, you will die. If you stand, you will die. If you fight me you will die.'

'Not really what you'd call a multiplicity of ideas is it?' asked Beowulf, who had noticed something; there was movement in the bushes behind Naiman, 'it's just a lot of "yadda-yadda-yadda- you-will-die, you-will-die!" I want to be properly menaced!'

'You won't trick me this time,' growled Naiman.

'Why not? I did all the other times,' Beowulf pointed into the forest, 'Behind you!'

'Really?' sneered Naiman, 'You really think I might fall for that?'

'Nah,' said Beowulf cheerfully, as Amarilla cracked the assassin on the head, using the stick that Louie-Louie had thrown into the bushes.

'I don't believe it!' he said, and collapsed.

Chapter 17

Negotiations! Some take place with chicken, some take place with knives.

'So, Corporal, you got into the chicken business after you left the army?' asked Marshall Gney, who was now happily seated with his leg up, eating Emsie's Grandpa's chicken in the chicken tent.

'It is very good chicken though! It must be the Batavian recipe. The Cardinal seems to like it too!'

He gestured at Mascarpone, who was also seated and eating chicken in the chicken tent. The difference was that Mascarpone was tied to the chair.

'Delicious, isn't it?' asked Gney.

Mascarpone nodded and continued to eat. Gney had decided that Emsie's Grandpa should keep him captive to ensure that there was a suitable cleric available to officiate at Amarilla's wedding when Beowulf 'brought home' the right Louis (whoever that turned out to be). To pass the time the Marshall had decided to sample the chicken and talk. He was really enjoying himself.

'Very fine granddaughter you have, Corporal,' he observed, 'Brave, resolute, pretty and excellent at making chicken.'

Emsie had resumed her usual job, having found some chicken that hadn't been stolen by the villainous Albert. This had left Grandpa free to find a special bottle of wine and start drinking and eating chicken with the Marshall.

'She reminds me of my Niece, Amarilla; who is also all those things, with the possible exception of being good at making chicken. I don't know if she can make chicken. I'm pretty sure though that if she did make chicken it would be good chicken; don't you agree Mascarpone?'

The Cardinal nodded.

'And, if Bull turns nasty and won't do the wedding, you will help me out, won't you?'

The Cardinal nodded. Gney turned back to Emsie,

'Could I trouble you for some more chicken?' he asked, 'it may not cure my leg, but it certainly makes it feel better!'

In the clearing, Amarilla stood over the unconscious body of the assassin, clutching her branch. In truth she was a bit surprised that he had gone down. Earlier she had watched Louie-Louie strike the same sort of blow with no effect and she had not really expected to be triumphant.

Beowulf was quicker to recover. He stepped across the clearing, took the branch from her hands and gave Naiman another stout blow to the back of his head.

'If that doesn't kill him it will certainly leave him out cold for a while.'

He picked up his knife.

'Thanks for the rescue,' he said, 'it was timely.'

He looked around.

'And now to business,' he said, 'I hope you won't be too disappointed with Louie-Louie as a life partner. I'm sure you can help him get over the religious thing.'

He moved towards the fallen Louis.

'Stop!' shouted Amarilla, 'I just saved you.'

'Yes,' agreed Beowulf, 'and?'

'And I don't want you to kill Lewis!'

Beowulf smiled,

'Love at first sight? He is a good deal more handsome than the proper Louis' I suppose; but don't you think he's a bit dim? He can't even speak French. Be a realist, girl, he isn't the one!'

Amarilla quickly stepped in front of him.

'I saved your life,' she argued.

'You hit an assassin; I was going to take him out anyway.'

'I don't think you were!'

Amarilla stared challengingly at Beowulf, who had to slightly look up to return her stare. He laughed.

'Even if you did save me, I have a reputation for dishonest dealing that I'm not keen to lose; especially over something as trivial as attraction. Move over!'

Amarilla gritted her teeth,

'I'll fight you,' she said. This caused Beowulf to laugh harder, 'you'll fight me, will you? You are a girl armed with, let me see, nothing and I have a great big knife; who do you think is going to win that one?'

He extended a hand to push her out of the way. She grasped it.

'I will,' she said.

Roscow was sitting up. Pedro had taken him down from the donkey after Amarilla had gone into the woods. They were both now sat at the side of the road. Roscow was thinking that he should go and find Beowulf, but his legs had other ideas, and so they remained sitting, looking out into the night. Banshee was wandering nearby, nibbling at the grass on the roadside.

'Are you hokay now?' Pedro asked.

'Mostlee,' said Roscow, 'I feel weak and do not theenk that I can go quicklee, but notheeng ees broken, as far as I know.'

Pedro looked at him sadly,

'Why must you copee thee speech of hothers?' he asked, 'Eet ees beneeth your dignitee. I ham sure you are a veree good speaker normalee. Eet ees wrong so to do thees!'

Roscow nodded and tried his normal voice,

'Eet ees a weak... I mean, it is a weakness. I just like the sounds and it really annoys Beowulf.'

'Why do you want to annoy heem?'

Roscow thought,

'I suppose it's that he is cleverer than me and he always controls everything and I just follow on.'

'Ha! Revenge!' said Pedro.

'A leetle beet,' agreed Roscow. Then they both looked up. While they had been talking Gretza the Angel had come up behind them. She looked a little glassy-eyed and the side of her face was badly bruised. She appeared to be anxious and in a hurry.

'Beovulf?' she asked, 'Vhere iz he?'

Pedro and Roscow looked her up and down. They saw a small dark haired woman, dressed all in black, with very pale skin, apart from her very red lips and the mottled purple bruising on her face.

'What 'eet you?' asked Pedro.

'Zhe troll,' said Gretza the Angel, 'now tell me vhere is Beovulf? If he has danger I must be saving him.'

'The troll?' asked Roscow looking warily around.

'Yes, zhe big troll zhat alvays vants to kill Beovulf. She is the one hitting on me.'

She looked around,

'Iz she here?'

Pedro stood up.

'Shee was over there,' he said, pointing to the spot where the troll had been lying.

'Oh deer!' he said.

'Quick,' commanded Gretza the angel, 'vhere iz Beovulf?'

They pointed down the slope, into the trees.

'I vill go to be saving Beovulf, as iz my directive!' she shouted and disappeared into the forest.

Pedro and Roscow looked at each other.

'That 'ees an accent you weel be likeeng,' said Pedro.

Roscow nodded in agreement.

Caractacus and Boo Dikka stopped at the edge of the clearing.

'I will,' said Amarilla, grasping Beowulf's outstretched hand, 'I will fight you!'

Beowulf allowed her to continue to hold his arm.

'You will, will you? With what? How? What will you achieve?'

He thought a bit longer,

'Why? Why will you fight me? You can't think that he will be a better King than they?' he gestured at Lewis and the Louis' 'None of them are worth anything. You are going to be the ruler of France no matter which of them survives; so why does it matter?'

'I think you are right,' Amarilla whispered, 'I think that may be true, and if it is, then it matters very much. You don't care at all for France, or her people; you care about your petty spite and profit and politics; so I don't think that you should choose what's best. I think that I should.'

Beowulf smiled,

'A good argument from the girl who would be Queen, but I don't think that you are choosing for France; I think you fancy the Briton in your bed. That isn't a bad argument, but you can hardly say it is for the good of the state.'

Amarilla hesitated, blushed slightly and then glared at Beowulf again.

'I will choose what is right for France!'

At this point Beowulf appeared to tire of the argument.

'It doesn't matter what is "right", Louis is probably the King and Lewis is probably an imposter, but it really doesn't matter; the will to power is all and I'm stronger than you and I have the knife.'

He shook his hand free and turned to where the fallen Lewis lay.

'You're right again,' agreed Amarilla, still in a very quiet voice, 'it doesn't much matter what is right. I once heard it said that Louie-Louie was actually the first born and that they were mixed up at birth. I'm certain Lewis is an imposter; who ever heard of two identical and one non identical triplet? I thought you were supposed to be a man of science? There is a bit more to it all than just "will to power" you have to have the means to the end as well.'

Beowulf turned,

'But I have the knife,' he grinned.

'So you do,' acknowledged Amarilla, 'but I have the army.'

'What do you mean?'

'Look around,' said Amarilla and gestured to the edge of the clearing where a number of the guards had finally arrived, 'I may not be able to stop you, but I think that they can.'

'Soldiers of France!' she began in a much louder voice, 'I am sure you recognise me, I am Amarilla de Cassiones and you are my Uncle's army. This man here,' she gestured at Beowulf, 'is the famous Beowulf and he has rescued the true, first born King of France; King Lewis! King Lewis was wrongfully imprisoned by his two younger brothers to prevent France from becoming the greatest nation in Europe; but thanks to our friend Beowulf and our friends from Britain,' here Amarilla bowed to the Britons who were also gathered at the edge of the clearing, 'we have a chance to rescue the True King and punish the wrongdoers.'

The guards cheered loudly and two or three went to help Lewis up; others took hold of Louis and Louie-Louie. As he was helped up Lewis half regained consciousness,

'Speak English!' he mumbled, but the guards didn't understand and cheered again.

Beowulf growled with frustration, but then laughed and put away his dagger. He eyed Amarilla with admiration,

'Brilliant!' he said, 'I hate the concept of moral authority, but you make a case for it. Let's see how King Lewis does.'

'Take the King to my Uncle's house so that he can recover. Also take these villains to his dungeons' she indicated the Louis, who were still not aware of their fall from power.

'The mighty Beowulf shall accompany us, to ensure that the King is kept safe,' she said, and then in a softer voice, 'and to make sure he is where I can see him.'

The guards, being very happy not to be caught in a desperate fight, were quite content to do everything Amarilla asked. They surrounded her and Lewis and began to march back to the road, taking Beowulf along with them.

As they departed Caractacus and Boo Dikka could hear Amarilla,

'Well done, valiant soldiers, you have rescued the King! You are restoring justice and honour to France! March on! March on!'

When they had gone, Caractacus said,

'She really has a gift for it, doesn't she?'

'Oh, yes,' agreed Boo Dikka, 'there's a Queen if ever I saw one, but our plan has worked, hasn't it?'

'Oh, yes,' said Caractacus, 'their King is our King; he is going to do just what we want.'

'And that is to turn over the Holy Gambling money to us.'

They both paused to savour the moment, as conspirators do when things are going well. They were just about to turn and go when a small woman dressed all in black came scuttling into the clearing,

'Have you zeen Beovulf?' she asked, 'It iz important zhat he iz zaved? Have you zeen him, zhe Mazter said that zaved he must be, and so I must zave him.'

'I think you are a little too late,' said Caractacus politely, 'I think he has already been saved. I think he is off to the Royal Wedding.'

'Vhich king?' said Gretza the angel, 'ah, it matterz not, zhey all have zhe zame ztupid name. All zhat matterz iz zhat Beovulf iz still alive and my mission can be completed.'

She hurried off.

'I think we should go to the Wedding,' said Boo Dikka.

'And the Parliament,' said Caractacus.

'Will anyone help me carry this gold?' shouted Dorf, as they moved off into the night and, once again, he struggled to keep up.

Chapter 18

In which (not necessarily in this order) the rightful (?) king of France gets married, the Parliament hears the plan for the distribution of the Holy Gambling money, the British plot bears fruit (although not quite the apples they were expecting), Norbert finds a follower, the chicken business spreads its wings, Gretza the Angel completes her mission (or at least the first part), Beowulf makes a decision and a fraternal understanding is reached.

Amarilla and King Lewis were married the next day in the large church that adjoined the Monastery. Fortunately, the church had not been damaged by the fire, although the Monastery had suffered significant damage: a considerable part of the revenues from Holy Gambling were going to need to be reinvested to restore the place to its former glory.

Marshall Gney, who appeared on crutches, gave the bride away and a sobered up Cardinal Mascarpone led the Wedding Mass under the stern direction and watchful eye of the Marshall. It turned out the Cardinal Bull had survived the cart accident, but had promptly and prudently retreated to the Papal State. It was rumoured that the Pope was ready to go to war.

Despite this threat, the old Marshall had remained on hand for the service, and a non military tear was clearly visible in his crusty old (yet still watchful) eye. The British delegation was very noticeable, having been promoted up the guest list by Amarilla.

'It's like they are the in-laws,' she had explained to the Marshall.

Amarilla's parents were also in attendance in a lofty, noble but rather indifferent way. Amarilla had organised it that they should be seated next to Roscow and Beowulf,

'After all, they did save the King!' she explained. Her parents nodded politely and privately pitied themselves for being placed on a level with uncivilised barbarians.

Roscow was so perplexed that he had forgotten to adopt an appropriate accent,

'I don't get it,' he whispered, 'hadn't you decided that Louie-Louie was going to be King? I thought you wanted to aggravate the Duke?'

'I do, I will,' Beowulf replied, 'there's plenty of time for that. I just thought...' but he did not finish the thought.

'You thought...'

'I thought it would be good for France.'

Roscow snorted, drawing a very disapproving glare from Amarilla's mother.

'France? You don't care about France.'

Beowulf smiled,

'No, not really; I thought it would be good if true love triumphed for once.'

This Roscow found even funnier, which drew more displeasure, this time from Amarilla's father.

'It wasn't that either. I was outwitted,' said Beowulf.

There was a silence.

'You were outwitted?'

'Yes.'

'And you admit it?' Roscow smiled, happily.

'Yes; it can happen. I'm not infallible.'

This caused Roscow so much merriment that he was able to draw condemnation, not just from Amarilla's parents, but from nearly half the church. When he had regained his composure he whispered,

'That must really annoy you.'

Beowulf considered this.

'Not as much as you would think. I mean, who cares who rules France? I don't think even the French care that much. One Louis seems much the same as another. I like the idea that the King can't speak the language and that the Pope and the Duke won't get their money. The thing about it that does annoy me is Caractacus Carruthers.'

This surprised Roscow,

'Caractacus? Why?' he asked.

They both peered over at the grinning Englishman, who was smiling contentedly, as the wedding service progressed.

'His plan worked. He has placed his imposter on the French throne, they'll get some of the money and he thinks that he is ever so clever. I hate people who think they're so smart; don't you?'

Roscow thought about it.

'I don't know anyone like that,' he said.

After the Wedding Amarilla and King Lewis, accompanied by many of the guests went directly to the Parliament to hear the newly married King give his judgement on the disposition of the revenues from Holy Gambling.

Norbert remained to clean up the church. He was feeling very pleased with himself: he had found an assistant. After he had found that the Cardinal had been missing all night, he had gone out to look for him, and in the forest, he had found a strange foreign man, dressed in black leather. The man had clearly been hit over the head a number of times and seemed to have no memory of who he was or what he was doing. He had been very grateful to be taken in by Norbert, who had appointed him as his assistant. Suddenly Norbert's life looked a lot brighter; he could send someone else to wake the Cardinal in the morning! Norbert had not yet been able to introduce his protégé to Mascarpone, who had turned up at the church, but he was sure the Cardinal would approve; he was very strong, quick, and, as far as Norbert could tell, not very dangerous at all.

'You can help me,' said Norbert encouragingly.

'I think that I might like to help people,' replied Naiman.

'I'm sure you'll be very good at it. You can start by helping me clear the Cardinal's room.'

'Oh, I think I might like that.'

'I'm sure you will; it's a very...interesting job.'

Norbert was not the only one to miss going on to the parliament; Marshall Gney had sensed an opportunity and ordered some of his troops to help him onto a horse and escort him to the fairground. When he arrived he found that the village of tents had begun to pack up.

'What is going on?' he asked a labourer.

'Weddings over and there might be a war, sir. It's time to move on.'

After a bit of searching he found what he was looking for; Emsie was packing away the chicken tent and Grandpa was watching.

'That's the way we did it girl; when we was on campaign against the Batavians. Pack it up good and neat.'

He stopped when he saw the Marshall.

'I hope the chicken was all right?' he said.

'Better than that,' said the Marshall, 'it gave me an idea. We need to talk.'

'Carry on here, then,' said Grandpa to Emsie.

'No,' said the Marshall, 'I want to talk to her, too.'

In the anteroom of the Parliament building King Lewis was nervous; and understandably so; he had been brought up to raise sheep in Britain, not make speeches to the Parliament of France. Caractacus had pushed his way in as 'the King's advisor' and Amarilla was there 'for moral support.'

'It's all written down,' said Caractacus, handing Lewis a scroll, 'you just have to read what's on the paper.'

Lewis looked edgy.

'Don't worry about the French, the letters are the same. If you get a few words wrong it won't matter.'

'It isn't the French,' confessed Lewis.

'What is it then?'

'I can't read.'

'What?'

There was a silence as Caractacus looked at Lewis in amazement.

'There weren't any books on the farm. There were just sheep. A lot of sheep. No books. Sheep. I can't read.'

Caractacus grasped his forehead.

'What are we going to do?' he cried, asking no one in particular.

'Stay calm,' replied Amarilla, 'I think that I can help.'

'Pzzt.'

'What was that? A fly?' asked Beowulf. Having nothing else in particular to do, they had gone to hear the King's speech to Parliament.

'After all,' Roscow had said, 'at the very least, when we know what he says, we can get ahead and sell the news.'

'At the very least we can have a good laugh at Lewis speaking French,' Beowulf had observed, with predictable unkindness, 'and then we'd better go, before the Duke, the Pope, or the Marshall get onto us.'

So they had gone on to the Parliament building, while thinking what direction they should head in next. On the way they had collected Gareth, the former Royal dog who Pedro had been looking after. It was while they were standing waiting for the King that they had been interrupted.

'Pzzt.'

'Is there something in my ear?' asked Beowulf, 'I keep hearing this buzzing, is it a bee?'

'More likely a wasp,' said Roscow, 'it's that time of year.'

'Pzzt,' hissed Gretza the Angel, who had squeezed up next to them in the crowd.

'Pzzt yourself,' remarked Beowulf, 'why are you pzzting us?'

'She wanted to save you from the Troll,' said Roscow suddenly recognising the small, black-clad woman.

Beowulf looked at her with some doubt.

'She was going to save me from the Troll?'

'I already have, vonce,' replied Gretza the Angel, 'in zhe snow, vhen you vas buried. I vas the Troll knocking out, even so, I think zhat she has a right to vengeance. I vaz alzo zhe one showing your dog vere to dig vor you. Zhat iz my mission and completing it is vhat I am doing now.'

'The Troll's still alive?' Beowulf asked Roscow, ignoring Gretza the Angel.

'No body found,' confirmed Roscow.

Beowulf swore quietly.

'Beovulf, I muzt tell you of my mission,' said Gretza.

'If you must,' said Beowulf amicably, 'there seems to be a delay with the speech.'

'So you want to invest in the business, that's it, is it?' asked Grandpa.

'Yes,' said Gney, 'I will lend you my name and enough money to double your operation. That's to start with. I think we could recruit some more people and spread out.'

'That's what I've always planned,' said Grandpa, 'a chain of chicken joints stretching across the known world.'

'But you've done no work towards that!' thought Emsie, although she was too polite to say.

'And I'd be in charge?' asked Grandpa.

'In a way,' agreed Gney.

'How do we start?' asked Emsie, who was surprised to have been involved in the discussion at all.

'A good question,' said Gney, 'I think that you should take the existing business, maybe find some helpers and set off to the East.'

'The East?' asked Emsie, 'No one goes to the East.'

'That's the point,' agreed Gney, 'expansion, new territories, that kind of thing.'

Emsie looked a little worried,

'I've heard the people are strange,' she said.

'I'm sure they say that of us, too.'

'What am I going to do?' asked Grandpa, 'while she's swanking around having a good time in the East?'

'Recruit,' said Gney, 'there might be a war here; that's sure to make people hungry.'

'For Grandpa's chicken!' said Grandpa.

'I think you mean, "The Marshall's Chicken,"' said Gney in his most authoritarian tone.

'I suppose I do,' agreed Grandpa.

Emsie, who was a bit awed by the change and her new responsibility, went back to packing.

There was still no sign of the King, or the speech; and so Beowulf and Roscow were listening to Gretza the angel explain her 'mission.'

'My Mazter, who iz an important man in the lands of zhe Eazt, has to me commanded zhat I should come to zhe Vest and seek you out. Zhere, he says zhat I am to vatch over you and see zhat no harms is coming to you, at least until zhe King of France makes his speech. Zhen, I am to listen to zhe speech and bring him news of it.'

'What does that have to do with us?' asked Beowulf.

Gretza the angel tapped her forehead to indicate her forgetfulness and continued,

'Vot a mistake! I must be focussing on zhe task with greater betterness! At zhis time, and not before, I am to zhay the vollowing to you.'

She paused and struck a slightly oratorical posture,

'Beovulf, I speak to you on behalf of my Mazter Vladimir zhe Great, ruler of zhe Dark Kingdom, between the Dark Mountains and zhe Darker Vorest. He, zhat is being Vladimir zhe Great, request zhat you, Beovulf, attend upon him at his home at zhe Great Castle of Chernogratz in order zhat he may speak unto you upon great issues, namely zhe granting to you of all zhat you can desire.'

She waited, while Beowulf thought.

'I am supposed to accompany you, to show you zhe vay and keep you safe upon zhe journey.'

'All zhat I can desire?' mused Beowulf, 'That is an offer I don't receive every day. Let me think. The King is about to speak,'

As it turned out, Beowulf was wrong, the King was not about to speak, although he, and the new Queen had appeared to address the Parliament. The Queen was about to speak; in her hand she held Caractacus' letter which said,

'In the matter of the revenues from the Holy Gambling, I, King Louis the First, have come to the decision that the following disbursements should for the future and in perpetuity be applied. After defraying costs and expenses incurred during the acquisition of the revenue and ensuring that capital monies sufficient to maintain and develop the structure of the gambling industry, the following tributes shall be made; one eighth part shall be retained by myself, Louis the King of France, for my personal use as is appropriate to a Monarch and beneficial to his state. One fourth part shall be made payable to the Army and the defence of France, which shall be sufficient to develop our army to meet foreign threats. The residual and remaining part we shall pay to our ally and protector, the nation of Britain in order to cement our friendship and alliance and secure our northern frontier.'

Caractacus himself had left the ante room in order to hear the speech (which he had written) in the Parliament, and, spotting Beowulf, he had come over to him.

'Listen to this,' he whispered, with a wide grin, 'this is going to be great; a real triumph of overseas diplomacy!'

Amarilla began to speak,

'Members of the Parliament and Citizens of France, today I must speak for my new husband, your King. I would like to say that he is speechless with joy, having just gained a beautiful wife; however, he has a sore throat, and so I must do the talking.'

Lewis gently touched his throat, to indicate its soreness, and then smiled to indicate his happiness. There was polite applause. She continued,

'There have been expectations that there will be changes made in the pattern of disbursements generated by the industry of Holy Gambling, and it has been anticipated that these changes will have significant political ramifications, My husband, the King, has indicated that although there are to be pecuniary changes, it is his intention and his Royal Will that the political situation should be encouraged to remain stable.'

Caractacus gulped,

'She wasn't supposed to say that,' he said.

Beowulf smiled at him brightly,

'I'm sure this isn't your Lewis' work; I doubt if they had "political ramifications" on the sheep farm.'

Amarilla continued,

'Currently, from the profits of Holy Gambling a full half goes in tribute to his Holiness, Our Blessed Father, the Pope and a quarter goes to our great friend and ally the Duke of Jutland, leaving but a fourth part to share between the state of France and her Monarch; this can not and will not be sustained. The Nation of France is grateful to its benefactors and allies and wishes to share with them our bounty, and so, continue to act in partnership. In respect of this, His Royal Majesty proposes to continue to donate a full fourth part of the revenues to His Holiness, the Pope; an eight part to The Noble Duke of Jutland and, additionally, a sixteenth part to our new ally of Britain. This is subject to all three ratifying and approving the King's will in this manner. The remainder shall be retained by the state of France for the purpose of building and maintaining her defence and the development of her industry and trade whereby she may be a fine partner to her European neighbours.'

'That's not in the letter,' said Caractacus dully.

'She's stitched you up well,' observed Beowulf, 'there's enough left for the Pope and the Duke to mean that they'll leave her alone, at least for a while. You should even be grateful for your "sixteenth part". How much were you hoping for, a quarter?'

'Just over half,' mumbled Caractacus, who was looking edgily at the crowd. Following his gaze Beowulf saw an angry looking Boo Dikka coming their way.

'Excuse me,' said Caractacus, slipping quickly away.

'Where is he?' asked Boo Dikka, 'The weasely, pea-brained, outmanoeuvred by a girl, alleged master spy?'

'You mean Caractacus, of course?' queried Beowulf.

Boo Dikka laughed,

'Yes, him. I suppose I shouldn't be angry; I think I may have given her the idea, and at least we did get something for our trouble.'

Beowulf nodded,

'But trouble will now follow,' he said, 'the Duke wanted a war and this will only postpone one.'

Boo Dikka thought,

'Will you help us stop the Duke?' she asked.

'Probably,' said Beowulf, 'Are you not content with the work of your master spy?'

He continued before she could answer, 'But first I have business in the East?'

Gretza the Angel smiled; Boo Dikka looked at him quizzically,

'The East? What are you going there for?'

'You wouldn't believe me, but I'm told, "All zhat I can desire," is what I can expect'

'That sounds generous and perhaps a little tantalizing,' replied the Queen, 'but I must get on. I have a master spy to chastise and some money to collect. I'm sure we'll meet again.'

After she had gone, Beowulf turned to Gretza and said, 'To the East?'

Gretza nodded and they set off.

Emsie had learned how Amarilla had taken charge of France, and perhaps managed to find a way to keep the Holy Gambling money without inciting a war with the Pope and the Duke of Jutland, before she had finished loading up the cart, ready to spread 'The Marshall's Chicken' to the east. She was proud of her friend and happy for her, but now she was starting out on a journey to claim her place in the world,

'And a lot greasier it will be than hers!' she thought to herself.

She was surprised that the Marshall had stayed to watch her leave; Grandpa had, predictably but disappointingly, wandered off looking for something to drink some time before. As she was ready to go he said,

'I do think the chicken business is a good idea, however there is another reason I wanted you to go to the East.'

Emsie was surprised, but said nothing.

'You are clearly a very resourceful girl. I do know that you helped Amarilla and you saved me from the guards. There is something going on in the East at the moment and I need someone to go and keep an eye on it for me.'

'What kind of a thing?' Emsie asked.

'I don't know. I hear strange stories about a powerful nation, a plot and the gates of hell opening. None of it sounds very credible; but I think there is something going on there that we should know about.'

'So I'd be a spy?' said Emsie.

'If you like,' said the Marshall with a grin, 'I think that sounds like a better job than "chicken handler", don't you?'

Emsie had agreed that it did, and had set off in the chicken wagon; but now, as the afternoon drew on, the temperature was a little cooler, the sky had become a little darker, and she felt uncertain. She had wanted to travel the world, she did want to be her own woman and she was ready for adventure; however, she wasn't entirely sure where she was going or what she was doing when she got there, and she was sure that she would have liked at least one friend to go with her. She put this thought from her mind and continued to drive on resolutely.

She was so focussed on remaining resolute that she almost missed the cries of two men, a women and a dog who had hailed her from the side of the road. Quickly she pulled up the cart, to see what they wanted.

'Are you travelling east?' asked Beowulf, 'if so could you use some company?'

'We would be really grateful,' said Roscow.

'And I am knowing of zhe vays,' said Gretza the Angel.

Gareth, the former Royal Dog, didn't speak, he just jumped aboard.

'Thank you,' said Emsie, 'but you'll have to work.'

With that, the wagon began to roll and the gentle coast of Monte San Carlos was left behind; ahead were the forests, mountains, dangers and treasures of the East.

In the dungeon, beneath what remained of the Monastery of Monte San Carlos, the Louis' brothers were playing chess. The games were interesting and even; Louis preferred to attack with his knights, while Louie-Louie was inclined to try and build a good defence centred on his bishops. Neither of them was particularly good at defending the King or taking the Queen. The irony of this was completely wasted on them.

'In a way, I think this has turned out rather well,' said Louie-Louie, who had not enjoyed his time pretending to be King at all, 'I think the experience has brought us closer.'

Louis, who had quite enjoyed being King, grunted.

'I mean,' said Louie-Louie, 'we're safe, we're fed, we don't have to worry about anything; and, best of all; we have each other.'

Louis grunted and moved his knight.

# The End

# (for now)

But don't worry!

Beowulf and friends will return for more adventure in

# Beowulf in the East

Available Autumn 2015

If you can't wait that long you can contact the author at willshand@live.co.uk and tell him to get a move on!

