Then drunken father and draggletailed mother had faded from the scene, and the boy had been left to a life of odd jobs and fleeting patrons.

His name was against him, for long before he reached manhood the King had come back to his own, and his grandfather's bones had jangled on a Tyburn gibbet.

There was no hope for one of his family, though Heaven knew his father had been a stout enough Royalist.

At eighteen the boy had joined the Roman Church, and at twenty relapsed to the fold of Canterbury.

But his bread-and-butter lay with Rome, and in his trade few questions were asked about creed provided the work were done.