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growing restless. Pedlars moved amongst the throng selling sweetmeats, sliced apples and even ragged co pies of Buckingham's so-called l ast confession'. Water tipplers with their stoups cursed and bawled for trade. Children cried and were hoisted up on their parents' shoulders. The great ones of the land, lords and ladies, both they and their horses covered in silken canopies, forced their way through for a clearer view. Everyone pushed and shoved and took their violence out on a cut-purse who was caught red-handed. He was nearly torn apart by the crowd until the sheriff's men hustled him away.
    The sky darkened, great grey clouds sweeping up the Thames. People saw them as a divine omen, God's displeasure at Buckingham's death, and their curses against the Cardinal grew even more vocal when the cold rain soaked them to the skin.
    The storm passed and, as the clouds broke, we heard a roar from the crowds near the Tower. A group of horsemen appeared, led by the sheriffs and mayor. They ringed a tall, auburn-haired man, his face as pale as the open-necked shirt he wore under a scarlet cloak. Agrippa whispered that this was Buckingham.
    The horsemen approached the scaffold, dismounted, and Buckingham walked up the steps, cool and calm as if he was about to deliver a sermon rather than meet his maker. He knelt before the priest who sketched a hasty blessing, exchanged words with the sheriffs, then came and leaned over the scaffold above us. Yet, at the very moment he began speaking, a declamation of his innocence, a wind sprang up and wafted the words from his mouth.
    Pressed in by people all around me, I looked along the line of yeomen. My attention was caught by a tall, swarthy-faced man, his hair black as night, nose beaked like an eagle. But what made him and his red-haired companion so singular were that both were garbed in black from head to toe.
    My attention then turned to the young woman standing next to these two crows. She had the hood of her cloak pushed back, revealing jet-black hair, a high forehead and a strikingly beautiful face. She must have sensed my interest and glanced towards me - and I was smitten to the heart by those dark luminous eyes. She moved her cloak slightly and I saw that she was wearing a gown of amber silk. One jewelled hand came up and I glimpsed the pure white froth of lace at neck and sleeve and the glint of a small spray of diamonds pinned to her bodice and another on the wide band of amber velvet which bound her beautiful hair. She smiled (though that may have been my imagination), then turned to speak to a tall, fair-haired man with the rubicund face and portly features of a wealthy landowner. He had his arm around a pale-faced, dark-haired woman and, as the crowd shifted, I saw that she was leaning against him, swooning in terror at what was about to happen.
    'Who are they?' I nudged Benjamin who, like Agrippa, seemed to be asleep on his feet.
    He shook his head but Agrippa followed my gaze.
    'The fair-haired fellow is Sir John Santerre, Lord of the Manor of Templecombe in Somerset. The fainting lady is probably his wife.'
    'And the young beauty?' I asked.
    'Santerre's daughter, Rachel.'
    'Why are they here?' I whispered.
    They are come to London to account and purge their innocence. Sir John and his family must, at the King's orders, witness Buckingham's death.'
    'Why?'
    'Never mind, you'll find out.'
    Agrippa's face hardened as he shifted his gaze to the black-garbed men around the Santerres.
    'Before you ask, Master Shallot, the man as dark as Satan is Sir Edmund Mandeville, his red-haired companion Master Geoffrey Southgate, and somewhere near them must be their two sinister clerks, Cosmas and Damien.'
    Now even my master looked uneasy.
    'Who the bloody hell are they?' I whispered hoarsely. 'What do they mean to you, Master?'
    'They are the "Agentes in Rebus",' Agrippa continued.
    My blood ran cold. I had heard of these unpleasant fellows, merciless bastards, the Cardinal's