Now I am not a hypocrite. I sat drinking and soon recovered my good spirits. Benjamin was an able, young man, well protected. He'd travel to Venice and then return, so whilst the cat's away… Nevertheless, I hadn't forgotten my master's look when he forced me to take that oath. No London! No Miranda! A group of sailors came in, lusty men. everyone a charlatan or swaggerer, so I spent the rest of the day carousing and quaffing with the best of them. I remember a young tavern wench, golden and ripe as an apple, and us bouncing like fleas on her bed at the back of the tavern. Golden times! We giggled and we kissed all night long. The next morning I rose, bent on mischief and of course I found it. Yet, on reflection, life is strange and full of the most deadly coincidences. If I hadn't stayed at that particular tavern, and if I hadn't left it at that hour… but, isn't that the mystery of life? Out of the frying pan and into the fire!

I'd collected my horse and was halfway across the market square when I glimpsed the relic-seller, dressed in a colourful motley of rags, laying out his wares on the steps of the market cross. He was tall, and singular looking; his skin burnt brown by the sun, with clear blue eyes and lank, black, greasy hair. Now, one thing about being a rogue (and it's old Shallot's rule) is that you can recognise a good man when you meet one, whilst you can sniff a kindred spirit half a mile away. He introduced himself as Nathaniel Ludgate, and his villainy was as thick as clotted cream. I told him to hold my horse's reins, then walked backwards into the tavern to get us each a pot of ale. I kept my eye on the rogue, a grand idea forming in my mind. He stood grinning at me and, when I returned with the ale, toasted me, his eyes dancing with mischief. 'You are interested in relics?'

'Oh yes,' I replied airily. 'I've even seen the Orb of Charlemagne.'