Master Christopher is in trouble. He has rashly spent all his wages at the swordsmiths. He’d heard rumour that war be brewing and wished to defend himself with something other than his clyster syringe (trust me, you really don’t want to know). Somehow he persuaded the swordsmith to give him credit but now he needs to raise more than a few groats (well, in fact, more than a few angels). He fears ending up in The Fleet. His only recourse is to games of chance. He be off down the ale house shortly to try to take money off the unsuspecting tipplers. He fancies his luck at Picquet or Maw. Mistress Agnes has tried to warm him that he is running the risk of falling foul of the justices, to say nothing of any of the Puritan persuasion – not that they are likely to be seen in the vicinity of the ale house.