The poisoned chalice

yes, Benjamin and I had also been to university but, due to minor misunderstandings, had both been asked to leave before we received our degrees. Well, who cares?)
    On Easter Sunday, just after morning Mass, Benjamin, as Lord of the Manor, announced the opening of his school to his incredulous parishioners. My master expected little response. Sometimes he could be the most idealistic of fools! The villagers, however, took him at his word, only too willing to dump their scruffy-arsed offspring on him between the hours of ten and five. Benjamin didn't mind. He took to schoolmastering like a duck to water. Horn books, quills, pens, ink horns, an abacus and rolls of parchment were bought. The hall was invaded by legions of snotty-nosed, tousle-haired, black-faced imps. I feared the little bastards would destroy the place but Benjamin was always good with children. He had a way of listening to them as if their every word was a pearl of wisdom. Sometimes I joined him in the school room.
    You see, usually I worked on the accounts and managed the estate. We raised sheep, corn and crops for the local market and sold hunting rights to our neighbours. The work proved no real challenge for me. Benjamin always thought the smooth running of our affairs was due to his just treatment of others. Don't you believe it! The best gamekeepers are former poachers and no one took old Shallot for a ride.
    Anyway, I'd go down to the schoolroom. The place seemed awash with dirty, little ankle-biters; some sat on benches, others squatted on the floor listening like round-eyed owls as Benjamin revealed the secrets of Mathematics, the divine truths of the Gospels and, for the most able, the courtly hand, as well as the basics of Greek, Latin, Geometry and Geography. Do you know, I envied him? Take Shallot's word for it, most people couldn't give a rat's arse about anyone else but Benjamin was different.
    However, I soon tired of his attempts to help our neighbours. On the Monday after Low Sunday, I saddled my horse, loaded a sumpter pony, tied a money belt round my waist, grasped sword and dagger and made my farewells.
    Hell's teeth, I remember it well! A beautiful spring morning. The sun made the mullioned glass of the manor house windows shimmer like pools of light. The air was thick and sweet with the smell of fresh-cut grass and the wild flowers which Benjamin had allowed to flourish in front of the hall. My master, his eyes heavy with sleep, came out to bid me farewell. He stood holding the bridle of my horse and stared innocently up at me like one of the children from his own school room.
    'You will take care, Roger? You'll come home if aught happens?'
    I clasped his hand. 'I'll take care, master,' I lied. 'I have a letter for our banker, Master Waller in the Mercery. If I run out of silver there's more there.'
    'What,' Benjamin asked, his eyes narrowing, 'are you going to do?' 'Make my fortune, master.'
    He smiled. 'Then make your fortune, Roger, and if Great-uncle sends for me, I shall come for you in London. Where will you lodge?'
    I chewed my lip and stared into the faint mist being burnt off by the early morning sun. The last thing I wanted was Great-uncle interfering! I was tempted to lie but, thank God, I decided to break a lifelong habit and tell the truth.
    'Near St Paul's,' I replied. 'There's a printer's under the Red Sign and next to it a tavern, the Golden Turk. You know it? I will lodge there.'
    I clasped my master's hand and, spurring my horse, rode bravely down the tree-lined path, the hooves of the pack pony behind me digging up flurries of white dust. I felt like a knight-errant riding out for adventure. Little did I know I was a fool slipping into danger and the black shadow of Benjamin's great-uncle would soon trap me. My journey was uneventful enough. When I was young, England seemed green and fresh, in the morning-time of its life. No armies marched the land, no great lords unfurled the banners of rebellion. The Great Killer saw to that. Even then no one dared cross him and he had yet to show the dark side of his soul and prove Merlin's prophecy that he was 'The Mouldwarp’ who would drown his kingdom in a sea of blood'.
    The abbeys and priories I passed slumbered gently in the lee of fresh green hills, unaware of the destruction about to crawl from the hellish pit of Henry's lusts. The villages, hamlets and the red-tile-roofed manors boasted their peace and prosperity for Henry was still living on the treasure