Our youth might have been golden; we were not. Benjamin was tall, rather swarthy, a good-looking young man with a wise face and the heart of a lamb. And old Shallot? Well, I suppose I was comely enough: black, tousled hair, sunburnt skin, generous-mouthed (or so the ladies told me). Oh and a slight squint in one eye. You have probably seen my portrait. I am quite proud of it. I've heard others whisper they've seen better faces in the death-cart going to Tyburn. But who gives a toss about them? They have all gone and I am now Sir Roger Shallot, Lord of Burpham Manor, Knight of the Garter, Knight of the Bath, Lord of the Golden Fleece, etc, etc.

Well, nonny no, back in the summer of 1523, we had just returned from Florence, where Benjamin and I had trapped the cruellest of murderers. Richly rewarded by the Cardinal, we had gone home to Ipswich. Benjamin once more became involved in his good works, particularly his school at our manor for those little imps of hell from the village. Now Benjamin, God bless his kind heart, tried to persuade me to participate in this.

'Roger, you have a gift for words,' he declared. 'A sense of the dramatic. The children love you, you make them laugh.'

I wouldn't be flattered. They laugh at me, Master,' I replied. 'And a teacher should be serious. After five minutes with their horn books, I'd have them out in the fields and meadows.' ‘Yes, yes.' Benjamin glanced away.

He was tactful enough not to refer to the time I'd taken the children out to re-enact the fall of Troy. Well, how was I to know that, when I told them how the Greek soldiers massacred the men and raped the women of Troy, poltroon Simpkins Threebottle would take my words literally and launch himself upon poor Maude Rossingham! 'I don't want to be a teacher,' I answered defiantly.

'Well, you should,' Benjamin replied, but chose not to pursue the matter any further.

So I was left to my own devices, wandering hither and thither pursuing one wench after another.