I thank the good Lord that I was born with the quickest wits and fastest legs in Christendom. But that's in the past. In my chamber I have a portrait of me when I was thirty. It's painted by Holbein and I recommend it as a fair likeness. I often stare at it: the hooded eyes, one with a slight cast in it (I told Holbein what I thought of him for that!) and the black, glossy hair falling in ringlets to my shoulders. My face is sallow but my lips are free and full, and my eyes, though severe, are ringed with laughter lines and there is a dimple in both cheek and chin. God knows I look as holy as a monk but you've heard of the old adage: 'Don't judge a horse by its looks'? I recommend it to you as one of the great eternal truths. I am the biggest sinner who ever prayed in church and I confess to having a personal acquaintance with each of the seven deadly sins except one – murder!

I have killed no woman or child and those who have died at my hands probably deserved an even more horrible fate. Indeed, these are the spectres who come to haunt me after the chimes of midnight.

Last night I recognised some of the men and women from my past. This morning their faces are still fresh in my mind as I sit at the centre of my maze and bellow for the vicar to bring his writing tray. One face, however, is always missing. Well, one in particular: Benjamin, my master, nephew of the great Cardinal Wolsey, one of my few friends. Benjamin with his long, kindly face, sharp quill nose and innocent sea grey eyes. Of course, he never comes. I suppose he is walking with the angels, still asking his innocent bloody questions. Oh, but I miss him! His eyes still mock me down the years: he was kind, generous, and could see the image of Christ in even the most blood-soaked soul.

I am of the old faith, you know. Secretly I miss the Mass, the priest offering the bread and wine, the smell of incense. I have a secret chapel built into the thick walls of my great hall and keep a blackened statue there which I rescued from Walsingham when the soldiers of Protector Somerset vandalised the chapel. I took the statue and every day, when I can, I light a candle in front of it for the soul of my dead master. However, let me concentrate on the dreams which come when the night is silent, except for the screech of the bat and the ghostly wafting of the feathered owl.