CHAPTER FOUR

An Outbreak of Amorous Insanity

It feels as though winter has been storing up its ire against the world - for the dry chill of early January falters into heavy snow and howling winds by the end of it. While most appreciate the white blanket that looks so delightful when one can view it from a room warmed by a cheery fire with a cup of mulled ale in one's hands, it brings all to a halt, and Cromwell's spies warn him that things are going very hard for those who are not so fortunate as we. Without hesitation, he sets to work on releasing what funds he can to the institutions that he, as Wolsey had, maintains for the assistance of those in such need.

His Majesty, meanwhile, has no interest in such matters. His ale is mulled with spices of almost obscene expense, thanks to his continued friendship with Campofregoso, while he has received a heavy velvet robe trimmed with the most magnificently spotted fur, which, we are told, comes from a leopard - that great cat that is found in the forests of Africa. Christ alone knows what that must have cost to seek out, never mind buy.

The continuing snows bury the gardens to such a degree that they seem to vanish - and none venture out into them to indulge in the hurling of snowballs, for there were times when the younger men of the Palace would soak themselves in the midst of wild, running battles where the ammunition was all about them, and inexhaustible. Now, however, the only paths that have been broken through the drifts are those that are needed.

Then, as February begins, the winds drop and the skies clear somewhat. The temperature does not rise - so now the fields of snow sparkle as the sun rises each morning, and the views seem altogether more pleasant. For those of us at work, however, our views are of ink-bedecked paper - or the blazing fire in the antechamber that we all visit regularly to attempt to regain warmth in our hands. We all look most strange - working at our desks while wrapped in thick cloaks, as though we have just arrived and are not planning to stay long.

I am not sure when I become aware of it this morning, but some of the clerks are quietly gossiping together by the fire, and the conversation appears to be growing rather sharp. As the volume starts to rise, so do our heads, as two of the youths seem most aggrieved with one another over something. I begin to move, but Cromwell is already on his feet and marching swiftly through the offices towards them, as their words become shoves. He reaches them just in time to intervene as one throws a mighty punch at the other, deflecting it expertly, yet in such a manner that those who do not know the skills he possesses assume it to be luck.

"What on earth is wrong with the pair of you?" he demands, "David - Stephen, the two of you would be thick as thieves in normal times. What has happened to bring you to such enmity?"

Neither seem willing to say, but they glare at one another with shocking venom, before one of them says, "It's nothing, my Lord." in such sullen tones that none could believe the words to be true.

"Very well, then." Cromwell is angry now, for he does not appreciate being lied to, "David, remove yourself to the Accounts offices. Stephen, you shall remain here. I will not have such behaviour in my presence. Do you understand?"

Scowling, David turns on his heel and marches out with such an air of wounded innocence that everyone is most bemused by it all. Stephen also seems loath to offer any explanation, other than a similarly wounded countenance, and he returns to the papers he was sorting, shuffling them about rather more viciously than he needs to.

"What is wrong with them?" I ask, as Cromwell comes back through to his desk again.

"God alone knows." He admits, "I imagine it is over something trivial - most such fights seem to be. I cannot imagine what has come between them, for they are as close to brothers as friends can be."

I shrug, "I would wager that it is a woman."

Cromwell cannot hold back a smile, "That seems logical - even if their actions do not."

Wriothesley approaches us, "Perhaps it might be wise to keep them separated for the moment, then?"

"I would agree with that." I admit, "If they are truly such enemies now, it is best that they avoid one another - at least in the offices. We cannot afford the mess if they are not stopped from fighting as they were today."

The strange behaviour seems to be infecting quite a few of the men at court - though neither Cromwell nor I have been able to track it to a specific source. The arguments always seem to be over a woman - as the words 'she' and 'her' feature regularly - but who this woman is remains unknown. Lacking the subtlety and deftness of Cromwell, I have not attempted to intervene where fists are thrown; I am well aware of my limitations and have no wish to sport contusions upon my face. He, however, has personally halted at least three fights, one of which broke out only just outside the Privy Chamber.

"Who is this woman?" I mutter, crossly, as he sends one of the Stewards out of an outer chamber to regain his temper, "She is setting the place afire - and yet I have no idea who she might be."

As we are leaving a Council meeting at the time, Wyatt is with us, and finally we learn the information that we have been missing, "I am told it is the mistress of a minor Baron who is currently at court." He says, "The Lady Midday."

"Midday?" I ask, bemused at such an odd name.

"Midday." He confirms, "She is not seen about the court during the busiest hours - we hear that she is shy - and she avoids those places where the highest born are to be found; but she is, many say, a great beauty. I am yet to see her, myself," He adds, with the air of an expert critic, "So I cannot say with any certainty whether or not this is true."

"If she is causing such havoc, then at least we should be grateful that she is avoiding the King." I mutter, "The last thing we need is his Majesty threatening to fight one of his Lords."

"Amusing though that would be," Wyatt says, "It is unlikely. Our dear Signor Campofregoso has introduced him to a most precious little jewel with whom he currently sports. I have no doubt that this Lady Midday holds no interest for him."

Despite himself, Cromwell stiffens at the mention of Alessandro - not only is he a flatterer, but also a procurer. I have no doubt that what little admiration he might have had for the Ambassador's abilities has now drained entirely away.

Wyatt promises to make more enquiries, and departs from us, leaving us to adjourn back to the offices. Our Council meetings are achieving so little, with the King as distracted as he is. Given that he cannot ride, or hunt, thanks to the excessive snow, one would have assumed he would have become so crazed with boredom that even our squabbling politics would provide some entertainment for him - but it seems that Campofregoso is able to command his attention quite utterly, and so we waste our time in the Council Chamber, and return to our work frustrated at the lack of progress we make.

The snow is also keeping raveners at bay, though we do make occasional patrols to ensure that this is still the case. We have not seen another revenant since the one that we dispatched at the start of the year, and - as far as we can tell - Lamashtu remains largely dormant. Consequently, our suppers are now merely a gathering of friends, though for several nights now, Wyatt has not joined us - and has given no explanation for his absences. As he is not beholden to us, Cromwell does not demand his presence, but it seems most strange that he would be so keen now to avoid our company.

Eventually, I decide to ask him what has distracted him. I cannot imagine what has given him cause to avoid us, and I am sure that there is a perfectly reasonable explanation - but I just wish to know what it is.

His manservant admits me, but looks rather embarrassed, "Forgive me, my Lord - but Mr Wyatt is not present."

He is holding a sheaf of papers in his hand, but in such a manner as one would hold a week-dead fish. Bemused, I hold out my hand and ask to see them. From his expression, I am not sure what to expect - and within reading the first lines of one of the poems on the uppermost sheet, I immediately understand his embarrassment, "Lord above!"

While I am well aware that Wyatt frequently writes appalling doggerel for lovelorn courtiers eager to impress their amours, I have never seen anything as bad as this; but - worse - I have never seen anything from his pen that is so utterly lewd. I am not one to shy away from such matters - God knows I have committed enough sins of the flesh in my time - but the words on the paper refer to places upon a woman that are always best kept covered in public. What on earth is he thinking?

The next poem is almost as bad, as is the third - but the fourth finally gives me the clue that I am seeking, for it is dedicated to someone; and I am not sure whether to be relieved or alarmed at the name Lady Midday.

I desperately wish I could tell Wyatt's manservant to put them on the fire, for they are truly some of the worst poems I have ever seen to emerge from his quill - and their salaciousness is such that most would be truly scandalised. Though it has to be said that some of them are rather amusing in their awfulness - and I am very tempted to steal one - just to see the look upon Cromwell's face.

"God have mercy - Tom wrote this?" as I hoped, his response is shocked, and rather embarrassed - and it was indeed worth concealing one of the less ribald of the poems to show him. I did not dare take the worst.

"One among several." I agree, "And this is, I think, by far the least salacious of them."

"The least?"

"The worst contained descriptions of intimate bodily parts, Thomas. Believe me, this is by far the most tame."

"What on earth is wrong with the man? I know that he enjoys his whoring as much as any of his group of comrades - but even he has never written such…such…" he fishes for a word.

"Tripe?" I offer. Cromwell glares at me.

"Were you able to determine a reason why he has taken to writing such rubbish?"

"It appears that he has encountered the mysterious Lady Midday. She seems to have worked her apparent magic upon him as much as upon any others who vie for her attention."

"Perhaps, then, we should find some means of meeting her." He sighs, "If she has this affect upon people, then she could cause a great deal of disorder. The last thing we need is for the King to come across her."

Despite our best plans, we seem resolutely unable to find this woman - and I am beginning to wonder if she even exists. Wyatt daydreams in Council meetings, and draws upon his papers, before departing as soon as he may. We see him but rarely, and never at all when we sup. Tired of this, I decide to pay another call, in the hope that he is there. Again, he is not, but there are still more poems - and, if it were possible, they are even worse than the first set I encountered. The last of them is so grotesquely descriptive of carnal acts that I immediately tear it into pieces and throw it on the fire. Imagine if someone such as Gardiner found that.

Enough. He must be somewhere about the court, and I need to find him. I am much better acquainted with his habits now than I used to be, and I find him in one of the lesser halls, where he is scratching away at a piece of paper with a quill. I dread to imagine what he is writing now.

"So here you are, Tom!" I pretend that I have happened upon him by chance, "We miss you at our suppers. Are we truly so dull these days?"

He looks very startled, but makes no attempt to hide the paper. Fortunately, his poem now is far more benign, though it is still dreadfully mawkish from the few lines I can make out - which refer to eyes as green as the depths of the pools of Hebron, and skin that would put alabaster to shame. Had I not seen the others, I would have assumed that he has been asked to write it by a lovestruck courtier. Except it appears to be he that is the lovestruck courtier…

"I am in love, Richard." He sighs, almost melodramatically, "For truly she is the most beautiful creature I have ever had the fortune to lay eyes upon."

Jesu - even his speech is laden with doggerel.

"Who?" I can guess - but I prefer to hear the words from his mouth.

"Why, she…she who is most wonderful! She who I am sure could transport me to the highest degree of earthly delights…she who…"

"Who, Tom?" I interrupt, before he can get any worse.

He does not answer. Instead, his eyes go wide, and he seems to shiver. Then he points, almost like one possessed, and I turn - to finally see the Lady Midday.

She is dressed in a dark over-gown of green, over a yellow-gold kirtle, while her head is framed by a gabled English hood, as are all women at Court, for such is the fashion led by her Majesty. Her sleeves are long and trimmed with sable, and then she turns…

God help me…she is by far the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes upon. Now I understand why Wyatt has been writing as he has - but I am glad, for one so fine as she could never, would never, give herself to one who so lacking in sense and maturity. I would have no competition from him - none at all, for I do not waste words in such childish fashion.

She is in conversation with one of the other young men, who looks up at her adoringly. How dare he? She is not to be so viewed! She is mine - I will not have any other look upon her.

Look at me…turn and see me…my hopes are so great that she might do so, for now I want nothing more than for her to look at me, and I am grateful that I am not in the black ensemble that I wear when we hunt. Why bother hunting now? All is right with the world: for here is the Lady Midday, and she shall make me truly content.

Then, at last, her eyes rise to look in my direction, and I feel my cheeks growing hot. God, am I blushing? I am not some wet lipped adolescent, for Christ's sake! What is wrong with me? I am a man grown, I have more experience of women than any of the youths about me, and I could offer her more - far more than they if she were but to let me.

I can feel my heart racing as she approaches, and her eyes are as deep and green as Wyatt's idiotic scribblings declaimed - and her lips are red as blood: God, I want them on mine. I would reach for her, here and now, if I could - and yet, there is that fragile innocence that she exudes like a fragrance. She is helpless, trapped in thrall to a man who keeps her for himself. No, that cannot be right - she is so…so…

Then she smiles at me, and I am utterly lost. I would have her here, on this very table before all of the men in the room, for she has granted me her favour above all of them, and I step forth in hopes that she might speak to me.

"My Lord…" even her voice is musical: rich and warm with a timbre that speaks of a greater fire to come, if a man could ignite it. None of these milk-sops could hope to do such a thing - for they are mere boys, and I am a man.

"My Lady." I bow to her, but without the fulsome fluidity of the youths - for she deserves better than to have some fool waving his arms about in ridiculous flattery. She is…God, I want her…

She smiles again, and her eyes flick to the side. Jesu - she wishes me to follow her. And I have not needed to say so much as a word. Does she see into me? Does she know what I want, and more importantly, does she intend to allow it?

Her every move is sensual, inviting - and I am hard put not to trot after her like a lovesick sheep. I know where she is leading me: to the quieter passages of the Palace, where we can be left in peace, and none shall disturb us.

"Richard?" I cringe inside, for that is the one voice I did not wish to hear. I turn, and try hard not to scowl in annoyance as Cromwell approaches us, "Where have you been? Did we not agree to…"

And then he recoils, gagging violently as he does so, and steps quickly back from us. His eyes are wide, and he has gone rather pale - though I am pleased, for why on earth would Lady Midday find that attractive? Perhaps now he shall go away and allow me to continue on our excursion.

But he does not. Instead, he steps forward again, though he looks most uncomfortable at having to do so, "Forgive me, Madam," his voice is a little wan, as though he is struggling to contain nausea, "I must perforce remove Mr Rich from your company - we are required by the King's Grace on a matter of some urgency."

"I have no doubt that he has no need to see me." I am furious - how dare he try to do this? He wants her for himself, and now he seeks to separate us and inspire sympathy in her.

"I understand, my Lord." She purrs, curtseying exquisitely, "Perhaps another time, Sir?"

God, yes.

She walks away, her skirts swishing in all sorts of interesting directions, and I wish that I could follow; but now Cromwell has a tight grip on my arm. Scowling at him, I wrench myself free, "What are you doing?"

"I could ask the same of you." He retorts, still looking rather ill, "God help me, I have never known such foulness to exude from any creature - it was all that I could do to retain my supper in my stomach."

"Blame William for that, Thomas." I snap back, "It is no concern of mine if your supper has poisoned you."

He frowns at me, "What is wrong with you? Why are you consorting with a woman?"

"I am a man, Thomas. I am allowed to associate with women, am I not?"

"A married man." He says, more pointedly.

"And has that stopped the King?" I ask him, "If it is good enough for his Majesty, is it not good enough for me?"

"Who was that woman?" he asks, attempting perhaps to change tack.

I stare off down the corridor, growing rather hot again, "That was her…the Lady Midday."

"Oh God." He mutters, like one who is facing a trying problem, "Come with me, Richard. We need to hunt, and you must be dressed for it."

"There have been no raveners for days - and it is not as though you require my assistance to dispatch them." I insist, stubbornly.

He rolls his eyes, "I am not asking you, Richard. I am telling you. We are to hunt, and you must retrieve your sword. Come with me." Without giving me the opportunity to object, he grasps my arm again, his grip far tighter this time, and pushes me ahead of him.

By the time we reach our quarters, I am burning with embarrassment at being treated like a recalcitrant schoolboy; and Cromwell makes it clear that he shall wait for me, so there is no opportunity for me to slip back out again without him stopping me.

Bemused, John assists me as I change, and I emerge from my bedchamber again - now dressed in black, but looking very sullen, I'm sure, to join him by the fire. His expression rather annoyed, he holds out my scabbarded sword, which I take.

"Why so irritated, Thomas?" I ask him, at once, "You are not normally so piqued before a hunt."

He frowns at me, "Pardon?"

"Though," I continue, "Quite why you felt the need to await me while I made myself ready, I cannot imagine. It is not as though I need your guidance to change my clothes."

"Would you not have left if I did not?" he asks, still rather cross.

"Why would I have done so if not to join you? Besides, if you are here, it saves me the bother of trying to find you."

Now he looks most confused, "And what of Lady Midday?"

"What of her?" I ask, "I saw her earlier today - and, while she is indeed reasonably pretty, she does not appear to me to be a woman for whom Tom would write such hideously lewd doggerel. In all honesty, I am at a loss to understand what it is that he sees in her."

"And yet, not ten minutes ago, I was obliged to all but pry you away from her?"

"That is patent nonsense, Thomas!" I insist, confused myself, now, "Why on earth would I be so brain-sick? I leave that idiocy to the younger bloods of the Court!"

He is frowning again, though with bemusement now rather than ire. I have no idea why he should think me enamoured of the Lady Midday, for she is - if I am truly honest - no more beautiful than any of the other ladies at court. Indeed, I can think of at least five women who would be far more attractive. Rather than comment further, he rises from the chair in which he was sitting, and we depart together to hunt.

It does not take us long to track down a lurking ravener, who is too cold to put up much of a fight, and our patrolling does not last for much longer. Even as wrapped up as we are, the air is bitter, and I would much rather seek a warm fire, and a hot drink; so we repair back to Cromwell's apartments, taking the quieter passages despite the lack of people about.

As we are about to emerge from a servant's passageway into the corridor that leads to his chambers, Cromwell stops dead. I am used to this sort of thing by now, so I do not crash into him. Instead, I join him, and look to see what he has noticed.

"Jesu!" I whisper, almost dropping my sword - for I have never seen anything like the creature before me - not even a ravener could be as grotesque as this. It is tall, powerfully built and covered with skin that has the texture of a lizard's. Its face is vilely ugly, with long fangs that protrude from the upper lip, while vicious looking claws emerge from hands and feet that are unnervingly spindly and lengthy - like gnarled twigs.

"What do you see?" Cromwell asks, sharply, as it appears he is not seeing what I am seeing.

"Something truly hideous…a demon unlike any I have seen before…" I manage, nervously. What the hell is it?

Without hesitation, Cromwell steps out into the corridor to confront the beast - but, to my confusion, it flees. Oddly, he does not give chase, but instead looks at me, "Are you sure that is what you have seen?"

"Of course it is. What did you see?"

He frowns again, "I saw the Lady Midday."

Cromwell is still most bemused the following morning; and, to my confusion, much of his bemusement seems to centre around me. His determined assertion that he came across me last night so enamoured by this new arrival that he was obliged to force me to part from her is most odd. Why would I be interested in someone such as she? I do not recall anything about her that was of interest - she was quite plain, quite…dull, really if I recall correctly. I certainly do not understand why Wyatt is so determined to shower her with such awful poetry.

"I think you should, if at all possible, repair to Grant's Place at the first opportunity," He says, worriedly, "The River is, I am told, quite passable - and I have a warrant here for you to use one of the lesser barges to ferry you to the Tower wharves. It has no date - you can use it as soon as the weather is clear enough."

"Very well, Thomas," I agree, "Though I am still at something of a loss as to why you consider this to be so urgent? She does not seem to be causing that much disruption about the court - unless you consider a few black eyes to be disruptive?"

"I do not know what she is, Richie." He says, firmly, "Only Wolsey's index can assist us - you must seek out any demon that inspires amorous feelings in those that see it."

"Other than you." I add, for I recall that he found her most offensive to be near, though his insistence that I was somehow in her company for reasons of an amorous nature still makes no sense to me.

"She is, without doubt, of infernal origin, Richie." Cromwell warns, "Though quite what it is about her that caused her ichor to reek as it did, I cannot fathom. I can only say that, from the moment that I set eyes upon her, I felt only a strong desire to vomit. It is not my preference to be that close to her again."

If that is his reaction, then it is not my preference, either.

The weather is still set fair, and I do not have a large amount of work awaiting my attention, so today seems as good a day as any to make the journey. If the weather breaks, and I am stranded at Grant's Place, it is therefore unlikely that I shall find myself overwhelmed when I return. To ensure that there are no arguments or complaints from the boatmen, Cromwell accompanies me to the Water gate, where we are told the barge can be ready in an hour. As he has some coffers which also need to be transported to Whitehall, I shall be accompanied by one of the older clerks: not that I am concerned - for old Wat is a garrulous fellow with many amusing anecdotes from a long life in royal service. The journey may be cold, but it shall at least be entertaining.

With little to occupy me for an hour, I opt to take a walk along the riverfront; though I am sure that I shall regret it once I become cold enough. I am not, however, the only soul taking a healthful stroll in the bitter air. A few are about - though the snow, once powdery, is now too icy to risk snowballs, so even the youths I see about are not throwing any.

The path, though cleared, is still rather slippery, so I soon change my mind, and return indoors to finish my wait in the warm. I do not, at first, notice the gaggle of young men who are seated - rather spaced apart - in one corner of the chamber, while a woman sits near the fire, embroidering silently. It is only as she looks up, that I recognise her, and I stop dead in my tracks.

God have mercy...she is as magnificent as she was the first time I saw her - and again, all I want is to approach. After Cromwell so embarrassed me last night, however, I feel I cannot. Instead, she smiles at me, sending a shiver down my spine, and rises to curtsey, "My Lord."

"My Lady," I try to think of something to say - something that she will find impressive, but I cannot; held in silence by the bottomless fathoms of her deep green eyes. I am sure that my face is growing hot again, but as that is not the only part of me that is reacting, I perhaps no longer care. She is glorious - wondrous. I want nothing more than to reach out to her…to…

"Forgive me, my Lord," she smiles, incandescently, "I am required to be elsewhere. Tonight, perhaps?"

Oh God, yes…

"Of course, my Lady. I shall await your presence."

She drifts past me, her fragrance intoxicating, and departs - her skirts swishing all over the place again. How does she do that?

The younger men are looking at me with hatred, for she seems to have granted me some of her time - but not them. Not that I care - after all, they are naught but boys. What would she want with them?

Naturally, to spend time with such a woman requires some consideration and preparation, for my garments are entirely inappropriate, and I should return to my quarters to replace them. John is most surprised to see me, "I thought you were to depart to Grant's Place today, my Lord? I received a note to that effect from Mr Cromwell."

God, not him again - always determined to thwart my seduction of the Lady Midday; well, not today. I shall see her; and, if all goes as I hope, I shall see more of her than most others in the Court. Ignoring John's confusion, I remove to my bedchamber, and wonder what on earth I should wear.

I am still dithering when Cromwell arrives, and he is most displeased, "For God's sake, Richard - if I hadn't had those coffers to travel to Whitehall, then I should have looked an utter fool! What made you change your mind about Grant's Place?"

I glare at him, "I had a better invitation."

He stares at me for a moment, then sighs, "Her, again. I take it?"

His tone is such that I feel I should strike him for it - and I would if I did not know that he could deflect me without effort. Instead, he looks at me, "How is it that, when we saw her last night, you all but cried out in shock at the sight of her - for her countenance and appearance was most hideous to you?"

"Why should I consider her to be hideous?" I demand, furiously, "She is incandescent as the sun! Her beauty is far greater than even that idiot Wyatt could describe with his flowered words! I could never see her so!"

"Oh, God…" He rolls his eyes. Then pauses, "Richard - take up your sword."

"What? Why?"

"Just do it."

Now I roll my eyes in turn, but I do as he asks and reach out to take up the blade from a nearby table where I had left it, "There. Why did you want me to do that?"

"We must find Lady Midday."

"Why - what has she done?" I am shocked - has the demon struck?

"Nothing as yet," Cromwell admits, "But it is what she has done already that concerns me. Until you took up your sword a moment ago, you were as enamoured of her as Tom has been."

"I?" This I cannot believe - there is nothing about her that I find particularly attractive, so why should I do something so ridiculous?

"Yes, you." He is looking at me oddly, "You do not remember?"

"Remember what? I saw her briefly earlier, but then returned to my apartments. I am not sure why - but I presume that, as I was cold and wet, I wished to change into dry clothes and get myself warm again. In such a chilled state, I could not countenance hours upon a barge on the river. Perhaps that is weakness on my part - and I should have remained at the water gate near the brazier the boatmen had." My tone is apologetic; for I have indeed embarrassed him.

"This is most strange." Cromwell sits down in a nearby chair, "When you see her, you become utterly enamoured of her - but the effect is stopped by your sword; and you remember neither state when you change from one to the other. Furthermore, if you see her while you bear the sword, she looks entirely different to you."

I find his assessment most unnerving - I have no memory at all of the situation he describes - I know that I have been without female company for some considerable time given my absence from my home, and the lack of a mistress or any other woman in my bed - but this? Surely this cannot be so - I have committed myself to being a Second, have I not? I find the entire suggestion bizarre in the extreme, but I also know that Cromwell would never, ever lie to me over something like this - and I have no choice but to believe him. Then a thought occurs to me, "She seems not to affect you, Thomas."

"She would not." He says, "The Rosary is protecting me from her. But for that, I suspect that I should have killed you to possess her by now."

I shudder, for that is certainly true. If it came down to a fight between the two of us, there would be no doubting the outcome.

"While I do not require monastic devotion, Richie," Cromwell continues, quite calmly, "I cannot have you distracted so. If you wish to indulge yourself, I shall not impose, enquire or intrude - but if you are prevented from carrying out your duties as my Second, I have no choice but to do so."

Now I am deeply embarrassed.

"What am I to do?" I ask, "I cannot bear arms at court, not while the King is in residence - and if I am as affected as you say, how can I avoid her without remaining wholly in my rooms?"

He sighs, "That, I cannot answer, Richie. I have no idea. If she is keen to meet with you, then I cannot stop her. I would suggest that you return periodically to your apartments for your sword - but if you are affected, then you would not do so. I think we must get you to Grant's Place - but without access to the barge, for it is now at Whitehall, I do not know when we will have another opportunity."

"In which case, I can only ask that you resume your escorting of me as you did when I was threatened by Zaebos. If you are with me, then perhaps she may avoid us?"

He nods, "I think that you are right - and we shall resume our nightly hunts; if only to ensure that you are always recovered when night falls. My only wish is that we could find some similar means of freeing Tom from his adoration as your sword frees you. His poetry is becoming so gratuitous that I am concerned he might find himself arrested for obscenity."

I dread to imagine how embarrassing that would be.