Mind you, the girl was as innocent as a dove. Of tender years and sweet demeanour. Her mother, a prosperous tenant of mine, came all afeared to me because my chaplain had taken her daughter out for a stroll on a balmy summer's evening. The poor woman knows my chaplain. He doesn't get the straw on his clothing from helping out at harvest time! Indeed, he spends more time in my hay loft than he does in the parish church.

'Oh, please, Sir Roger,' the poor woman pleaded. 'Find out what your chaplain did to my daughter last night?'

I had the girl brought by the captain of my guard to where I sit at the centre of my maze, protected by my two great wolfhounds.

(Oh yes, I may well be past my ninety-fifth year but it is surprising how few people forgive and forget. The secret agents of every crowned head of Europe, and a few beyond its borders, would pay good gold to have my old head on the tip of a pike. But enough of that for the time being. Soon I’ll come to my story: about the orb of Charlemagne, about the Noctales, the Men of the Night, and old Shallot's desperate fight to stay alive in the blood-chilling days of Henry VIII.)

Anyway, pleasant things first. The young girl was as sweet and brown as a nut. I sat her on a chair and gave her a silver piece. Tell me, my doucette,' I began. 'What did my chaplain teach you last night? Where did he take you?'

'Oh, he bought me some sweetmeats,' the little joy replied. 'And took me by the river bank.' Oh dear, I thought. 'And what did you do there?' I asked. 'He took me by the hand.' 'And what did you do?' 'I laughed.' 'And then what?' 'He touched me on the breast.' 'And what did you do?' 'I laughed,' she replied, eyelids all a flutter. 'And then?' 'He touched me on the knee.' 'And what did you do?' I asked. 'I laughed!'

Now the conversation went on like this for a few minutes until I stopped and said, 'Sweet one, why did you laugh every time my chaplain touched you?'