The poisoned chalice

Benjamin was as different as chalk from cheese. He had that irritating manner of believing all was well and trusting everyone completely.
    In theory Benjamin was Lord of the Manor and I, a true man of the world, his steward, his trusted servant and bosom friend. I was wise beyond my nineteen years and kept a sharp weather eye on all the human kites and ravens attracted by Benjamin's generosity. You know the sort: wandering musicians, ballad mongers, sharp-eyed priests. (I see my chaplain's shoulders twitch with annoyance.)
    This unsavoury pack of rogues streamed across the meadows to our Manor House like rats towards an unguarded hen coop. Old Shallot did what he could. I bought the biggest mastiffs I could find and sent the beggars screaming for the trees, at least for a while. At the time I had little knowledge of dogs. One day I took the beasts hunting and they raised a big fat buck. I never saw the buck again, nor the mastiffs. God knows what happened to them. They scampered off, barking like the devil. Those four-footed mercenaries must have met someone else who took better care of them because they never returned.
    Nevertheless my problems with my master's open-handed generosity persisted. At last I had a serious discussion with Benjamin in our great oak-panelled hall, the walls above the panelling painted a light green and decorated with cunningly devised shields bearing the arms of Wolsey, Daunbey and, finally, Shallot. Of course, I made the latter up though I am still very proud of them; a mailed fist, middle finger extended, and underneath the Latin motto 'In dubito curre' which, roughly translated, means 'In doubt, run'. I bear the same arms now but the middle finger of the mailed fist is no longer extended since the Queen's herald, Rouge-Croix, discovered that in certain parts of France such a gesture could be taken as offensive or obscene. Nevertheless, at the time I was proud of my skill. I had developed a deft hand at writing bills and counterfeiting other people's signatures, my master's included. No, I wasn't a thief! I just had to look after our property. And that provoked the confrontation with Benjamin.
    'Master,' I wailed, 'we cannot keep feeding every rogue in the neighbourhood. I am tired of naughty nuns, fornicating friars, mouldy monks, ruthless rogues and virile villains!'
    He leaned back in his chair in front of the hearth and laughed till the tears ran down his face.
    'You have a way with words, Roger.' He straightened his face and sat up. 'But I still insist that we help those less fortunate. So, what do you propose?'
    'Children,' I answered without thinking. (That's another of my faults, I am too kind-hearted and often speak without thinking.) 'Start a school,' I stammered. 'For the children of the village. Help those who need such learning.'
    'Marvellous!' Benjamin replied. 'But how can I assist you, Roger?'
    I looked away, embarrassed. 'You have helped me enough, master.' 'You're bored aren't you, Roger? You miss London?'
    Good Lord, it was wonderful how my master could read my mind! Now, we very rarely went up to the great city and, when we did, Benjamin kept a close eye and a tight rein on me. You see, he knew me to be like a dog on a leash, straining to break free and head hell for leather into the nearest mischief. Of course, we had been to London to visit Benjamin's former betrothed, Johanna, a sweet girl whom he adored. Johanna had fallen for Cavendish, one of the great lords of the land, who'd broken her heart and destroyed her wits. Now the girl lived in the care of the nuns at Syon on the Thames, a mere shadow of her former self. (Oh, by the way, Benjamin killed the nobleman concerned in a duel with swords in Leicester Fields. Mind you, it wasn't the last time he fell in love. Oh, no! But that's another story.)
    'You should go, Roger,' Benjamin continued. 'But stay here at least until Easter. I'll need your help to clear one of the chambers and set up a school room. You will help?'
    I needed no second bidding and, in the last two weeks of Lent, when Benjamin fasted on water and salted fish and abstained from wine (I did the same during the day but, at night, I always crept out to one of the nearby taverns; I have great difficulty fasting for I get this terrible thirst!), I worked like a Trojan, clearing, cleaning, painting and refurbishing, until the old solar on the ground floor of our manor house gleamed as fresh and as opulent as one of the great Halls of Cambridge. (Oh,