‘I am the amazing Berthold, premier juggler and entertainer, whose stunning verse may draw a tear or arouse laughter, and whose fame spreads far and wide!’

The captain merely raised an eyebrow and continued checking his lists.

Berthold glanced back at Mellor. ‘Some pies and bread, I think.’

Mellor reached behind him to pull out the food sack. After groping inside he tossed a couple of meat pies to Berthold, who caught them and began juggling them so deftly they appeared to be turning a circle in the air without his hands ever touching them. Mellor then tossed a third pie, which joined the wheel of food turning before Berthold. All the other guards were now watching with evident appreciation, and one of them guffawed loudly when Berthold momentarily diverted one of the pies to take a bite out of it.

‘Have you ever seen such skill? But this is nothing. My lovely assistant Poliasta, who comes from the Far East, where I learnt my trade under the rigorous eyes of a great wizard, will now join me, and together we shall give you a show!’

Polly’s stomach lurched, not at being given a name that sounded like a wall covering, but at the prospect of bringing herself into notice. However, she had not expected to be fed for free so felt she must at least make an effort. Quickly she shed her greatcoat, accepted the food bag Mellor was thrusting at her, and leapt down from the wagon. The guards, who had clearly never seen a woman so strangely dressed, nor with unmarked skin — their own was as pock-marked as Mellor’s and Berthold’s—stood and gaped at her. She noticed the gaze of one straying to the scale on her arm, and wondered if this was such a good idea.

‘An apple would clear the palate of the clag from so many pies,’ suggested Berthold.

Reaching into the bag, Polly took out the required fruit. ‘Here is an apple for the amazing Berthold,’ she proclaimed, tossing the wizened fruit gently towards him.

‘Thank you, my lady Poliasta.’ The apple joined the turning circle as smoothly as the third pie had done. He took a bite out of it, then a bite out of another pie so that his cheeks were bulging and food spilling out of his mouth. This was high comedy to the guards, and even the captain was showing signs of amusement now.

‘Now, sir, if you would hand the Lady Poliasta your dagger?’

The captain’s humour disappeared for a moment, till he glanced at his armed colleagues and saw little harm in such a request. Shrugging, he drew the blade, flipped it over, and held it out hilt first to Polly. Taking the weapon, Polly felt immediately doubtful, as it was very heavy.

‘Like the apple,’ Berthold prompted her.

Out of the corner of her eye Polly could see several of the nobility approaching, but all her concentration was focused on throwing him the dagger. She turned it so as to reach him hilt first, but miscalculated when she threw. The dagger turned in the air and dropped low to one side of him. But, professional that he was, Berthold stooped and caught it effortlessly, and set it spinning in the midst of the never-faltering wheel, now comprised of three pies and an apple. He too, Polly noticed, had obviously spotted the approaching group, and now began to up the ante. Polly saw how the guards bowed and moved aside. The dress of the nobility looked fantastical to her: so layered in rich fabrics were the men that their bodies appeared ridiculously huge over their unpadded stockinged legs. The women’s clothing was more understated and to Polly seemed almost suited to a nunnery. But there was power here—she recognized it in the arrogance of expression and pose.

‘Let us test the edge of your dagger, sir.’

Polly stared as Berthold briefly snatched the dagger and flicked out with it. The apple was now gyrating in two halves, and his hand movements were becoming ever more complicated. He juggled for a while behind his back, took another bite of pie, then stuffed one apple half into his mouth.

‘Mffofle gloff floggle,’ he muttered through a mouth crammed full.

He had been feigning not to see the presence of the new arrivals as he tossed the various items ever higher. Then pretending to notice them, with a parody of startlement, the chewed food exploded from his mouth.

‘Your majesty!’ He bowed dramatically low. The dagger went whickering aside to stab into the ground between the captain’s feet, and one after another the three pies then the remaining half apple thumped onto the back of Berthold’s lowered head. The response from the central figure of the finely dressed crowd was a wheezy laugh followed by limp applause from his beringed fat hands. The rest of the group applauded sycophantically. Polly stared up at the huge man for a second, then quickly bowed her head. Mellor had climbed down from the wagon to make obeisance as well.

‘So the amazing Berthold has arrived,’ rumbled King Henry VIII. ‘I see the measure of your report does not overextend itself, Cromwell.’

Polite laughter greeted this quip.

‘Let you, King, look again on the visage of one who is a king of laughter.’

Keeping her own head bowed, Polly observed Berthold straighten up. His hair and beard were dusted with crumbs.

‘Well done,’ said the King, looming over Berthold.

‘Your Majesty is too kind,’ said Berthold, then clamped his mouth shut as Henry moved past as if the juggler hadn’t spoken.

‘And what is this gracious face?’

The beringed hand caught Polly’s chin and put gentle pressure under it to bring her head up. She didn’t know who the question was directed at so, like Berthold, kept her mouth shut. The King looked her up and down, his attention mainly focusing on how amply she filled her blouse.

Don’t lose your head over this guy, Nandru snickered.

‘If he calls me a “pretty little thing” I swear I’ll kick him in the nuts, Polly snarled.

Finally dragging his gaze from Polly’s breasts, the monarch glanced over his shoulder. ‘Cromwell?’

A bulky man, who, amongst all this noble finery, appeared like an obese vulture, stepped from the respectful position he had held a pace back from the King. ‘No doubt a new member of Berthold’s troupe, my prince.’ Thomas Cromwell then turned to Berthold. ‘What say you, fool?’

‘The Lady Poliasta has only recently joined us on our journey of entertainment and joy, my lord. She came to us from the Far East and knows many of the wiles and diversions of the Orient.’

‘I shall be glad to know more of them, I think,’ said Henry, his gaze once again resting on Polly’s bust.

Well, they do say yours is the oldest profession.

‘One I no longer intend to pursue,’ Polly subvocalized angrily.

The King released her chin and moved on. ‘One ryal, I should think, for this brief entertainment, Cromwell?’

The Earl of Essex delved into his pouch and passed a coin across to Berthold. As the entertainer took it and bowed, Cromwell frowned at him briefly before moving on after the King. Soon the entire group of nobles had departed in the direction of the house.

‘I’ll show you where you may encamp, then where you may break your fast,’ advised the captain, who was holding his dagger and eyeing it speculatively. ‘And tonight you will be most careful with any dagger you might use, else you might find yourself juggling with the sharp end of a crossbow bolt.’

Still gazing with reverence at the coin resting in his grubby palm, Berthold did not even hear the threat.

Her arm was charred to the bone and on that side of her body the skin of her neck was severely blistered and leaking plasma. Her male comrade thrust his hands into their mantisal’s inner eyes and the creature violently shifted through colourless void. Making small whimpering sounds, the woman pulled a flat oval of metal from the pouch on her belt, and pressed the object against her neck burns. Immediately she sighed with relief and relaxed, before more closely studying her damaged arm. After a moment she abruptly thrust it outside the confines of the mantisal’s glassy structure, and from it a contrail of red cut across the colourless space. When she pulled back, the entire charred portion of her arm was gone, right up to her biceps.