The administration of the manor was left to a thrifty steward called Barker, the grandfather of my present captain of the guard. (Oh, yes, I believe in keeping everything in the family. Even my little turd of a chaplain, on whom I lavish so much love and affection, is the great-nephew of the teacher Benjamin hired.) Suffice to say that with my master looking after his fellow man and others more capable looking after the estate, I grew bored. I drifted back to London, ostensibly to take lessons with a duelling master, a Portuguese who had taught Benjamin, having left his country one step ahead of the Inquisition.

'You have a good eye and a quick wrist,' the fellow remarked one day. 'You are swift in your parry, cunning in your lunge – but there's something lacking.'

'Too bloody straight there is!' I answered. 'I don't like being killed and I have no desire to kill anyone!'

The sword-master, leaning elegantly on his fencing foil, stroked his short goatee beard.

'Good!' he murmured. 'The mark of a true swordsman.' He wagged a finger at me. 'One day you will understand. When the blood runs hot, you'll know it. A wild unselfish desire, something which comes from the very marrow of your soul: to kill or be killed. All your life, all your existence, channelled to that one end.'

Of course I thought this was nonsense and the fellow short of a king's full shilling. Yet he was right. Years later, on a golden sea-shore, Benjamin and I fought sword against sword, dagger against dagger, over a woman with a face as beautiful as Helen of Troy and a heart and soul as black as the deepest pit in hell. However, that's another story and doesn't concern us here.

Soon I had learnt enough of duelling and began to drift around the capital. London is such a wonderful place! It harbours every type of villain under the sun: gamblers, foists, footpads, cut-throats and cut-purses, sturdy beggars, palliards and counterfeit men… I really felt at home. Naturally, Benjamin kept a wary eye on me and insisted that I spend no longer than three nights in succession in London. He would sit behind his desk in the great solar of our country manor and waggle his bony finger at me.