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never-ending chores. In fact, he had so much to do there was little time to think about what he’d seen.
    The arrival of the king had been exciting, but any pleasant memories of his birds’-eye view of the proceedings were eclipsed by the moment he had found himself scrutinised, once again, by Count Cazalon.
Monster
– that was what Ann had called her guardian. It was a thought that unsettled him so much that he tried to put it from his mind.
    The morning of the third day following the banquet found Jem still hard at work in the kitchen. His task was to polish the silver salvers and tureens so that they could be safely locked away again in the vaults. It was bitterly cold and the thin February light struggled to reach the gloomy corners of the echoing, stony room. Jem blew on his chilblained fingers, tightened the scrap of bandage that covered his still-bloody knuckles and rubbed even harder at the platter on his knees.
    He felt a tap on his shoulder and was surprised to see his mother standing there. Sarah rarely came down to the kitchens.
    “You are to leave this now, and go to the duchess,” she said. “Be quick about it, Jem. She is waiting in her parlour.”
    The duchess sat at a desk in front of the tall window overlooking the gardens. Today, the formalwalkways and flower beds were invisible beneath a layer of snow.
    “Ah Jem, good,” she said as he entered the room. He noticed that her pale cheeks were flecked with bright spots of colour.
    “I need you to deliver this note to… a friend.”
    She handed him a sealed square of paper and looked him directly in the eye before continuing, “This is a very private business matter, you understand, Jem? No one, not even your mother, is to know where you are going or what you are doing for me.”
    Her voice seemed tight and a little strained.
    Jem took the note and bowed. He had a twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach and was horribly aware that somehow, he knew exactly where this errand would take him.
    The duchess continued, “I want you to deliver this to the house of Count Cazalon in Southwark. I realise that you don’t know the way, so we…” she paused, “that is to say
I
, have arranged for Cazalon’s pet moor to meet you at the steps to London Bridge at noon. He will guide you to the house and then the count will want you to carry a most important package back to me.”
    “But, ma’am, I… my duties—” Jem began, tryingdesperately to think of a way to avoid this errand.
    “Are cancelled for today,” said the duchess firmly, adding, “I have already sent word to Wormald that I need you.”
    Jem groaned inwardly. What would the steward make of that? Whatever the duchess had told Wormald, it would certainly merit another beating. He bowed and backed towards the door.
    “Wait. Come here, Jem,” the duchess called out. “Here is your toll for the bridge.”
    She took a small leather pouch from the folds of her dress and counted three coins into the palm of his hand.
    “The rest of the money in here is to be given to the count himself and no one else.” She gave him the heavy pouch.
    “Look sharp now. Off you go… And remember, Jem. No one is to know about this.”

    Muffled against the bitter cold in a thick woollen scarf and two layers of mittens, Jem left Ludlow House through the yard gate behind the kitchens. He took the passage normally used by the delivery men so that no one would notice him go.
    He was confused and angry. And there was something else that troubled him too – the duchess had seemed oddly furtive. What could she possibly be up to that she couldn’t even tell his mother about it? Jem didn’t like to admit it but he was also scared. He would choose a joint beating from Wormald and Pig Face over a visit to Count Cazalon.
    The city was crusted with soot-blackened snow and ice. Even in the darkest narrow streets, where the upper storeys of timbered houses jutted out so far over the road that they almost touched, grimy