At the market...

The cart comes to a stop. Outside it, you hear the hustle and bustle of the market place. Hogarth appears at the back of the cart and throws you a bundle. "Get out of those rags and put these on, I won't get a good price with you looking like that" he says impatiently.

You take off your old tattered clothes, all while Hogarth watches you, and quickly put on the tunic and trousers he has given you. They're plain, but pretty good quality, certainly a lot better than your old clothes which were mostly patches and holes. Something about being in fresh clothes makes you suddenly nostalgic. You hated your father, but the farm was home. Sitting here in the back of a cart in a strange city and new clothes, somehow made it seem all the more distant.

"Get a move on!" Hogarth yells. You quickly buckle on the simple leather belt and step out into the market. Your muscles still ache from travel and it's good to finally stretch. You look around at the brightly coloured stalls, selling everything from produce to pottery. The air is full of strange smells from the spice merchants and a table laid with brightly coloured bottles adds the smell of exotic oils to the air. You don't get to enjoy the scene for long before Hogarth rudely shoves you towards the other end of the market square.

Ahead, you can see a raised dais surrounded by a small crowd of people. Just now the dais is occupied by a well dressed man and another smaller figure dressed in a coarse burlap tunic. It seems that this is a **** auction. The auctioneer occasionally lifts up the current "lot's" arms and opens their mouth: "All their own teeth and a good strong back! I'm giving him away at three shillings!" he says, trying to provoke interest from the crowd. No one seems impressed by the sad, worn looking figure. "Ah, forget it" says the auctioneer, shoving the **** off the dais with his boot. The poor creature stumbles and falls into the mud, provoking laughter from some of the onlookers.

Hogarth shoves you forward and gestures to the auctioneer. "Well well! Gentlemen, we have a new lot." says the auctioneer, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you centre stage. He spends a few seconds appraising you, squeezing your arms and looking in your mouth and eyes before turning to the crowd: "A fine young man, a hard worker I'll bet and a face that won't make you want to throw up. No pox, no plague. Let's start the bidding at...eight shillings!". From the corner of your eye, you see Hogarth scowl, presumably he had expected a larger starting bid. Still, the crowd seem to be interested. A few of them murmur amongst themselves while others seem to be weighing you up. A hand raises. "Eight! Do I have nine?" says the auctioneer. Another hand. "Nine! Ten surely? For this fine figure of a ****...ten anywhere? Thank you sir! We have ten! Can I hear eleven?"

As you're bid on, you make a note of which people are making bids, after all, it's likely that the person who wins will determine what the rest of your life is like. So far you've spotted the following bidders:

• A well dressed man wearing the city livery. You assume he's the Lord's steward.
• An old man with a long beard, wearing a robe. He looks the type to be an apothecary.
• A tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a longsword on his belt. He's clearly a knight.