The King's Evil

'Is everything in readiness, Moll?'

'Everything,' she said, beaming. 'Exactly as you asked.'

'Where is Damarosa?'

'Waiting in her room.'

'I will fetch ...' He checked himself. 'Old Rowley is in the coach.'

Molly's grin broadened as she watched Henry helping the other passenger out of the coach. When they went past her, she mumbled a welcome and dropped a curtsey. The King rewarded her with a gentle squeeze on her arm before he was led down a corridor by his guide. Henry paused outside a door, knocked sharply and received a summons to enter from a female voice. He opened the door to usher his companion in then closed it gently behind him, strolling back to Molly Mandrake who was watching excitedly from the end of the corridor.

'Let us leave them to it, Moll.'

'Did he really ask for Damarosa?'

'At my suggestion.'

'Why did you not let me entertain him?'

Henry ogled her. 'Because I save the best for myself.'

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

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

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

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

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

'Yes.'

'It becomes you, my dear.'

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

'Your reputation runs before you,' he said.

'Does it?'

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

'I am flattered.'

'Nothing less than you would suffice for me.'

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

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

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

'You will have to teach me, Damarosa.'

'Teach you?'

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

'The others?'

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

Another giggle. 'Themselves.'

'Wild boasts and foolish promises?'

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

'And afterwards?'

'It is very different.'

'In what way?'

'They say the nicest things imaginable.'

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

'Yes?'

'I do not like the sound of beforehand.'

'Oh?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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