In the spring of 1520 Benjamin Daunbey and I were the proud occupants of a large manor house on the outskirts of Ipswich. Really, it was more of a pleasaunce than a manor with its white lathed plaster, ornamental chimney pots, squat black beams, with panelled rooms with carved furniture, and a cellar well stocked with a variety of wines. On our estate were granges, barns, a mill, carp ponds, lush fields and fertile meadows. We were the grateful beneficiaries of the largesse of Benjamin's uncle, the great Wolsey, who lavished rewards on us for resolving, only a few months earlier, the sinister White Rose murders.

Now success had not changed Benjamin. He still dressed drably. Indeed, I well remember him as he was then, long and lanky, his sombre, solemn face framed by jet black hair. At the time I was of the same colouring (there's a portrait of me hanging at Burpham). I was dark, my black hair cropped close, a slight cast in one eye, and a cheeky expression which many said would send me to the gallows. In a way they were right but, thankfully, I was never hanged though I was close to it on many occasions. What amuses me is that many of those who claimed I would hang, died violent deaths themselves in some pot-holed alleyway, bleak battlefield or gory execution yard. I was a bigger rogue then than I am now but Benjamin was as different as chalk from cheese. He had that irritating manner of believing all was well and trusting everyone completely.