Very, very deep in the king's darkest, dankest dungeon there is a man. His clothes are soiled, his skin black with the years and years of constant exposure to soot and ash. His soft calf-skin boots have long ago moulded away to nothingness and he now *pat* *pat* *pats* around the cold stone floors on calloused and slightly-too hairy feet. His back is arched, as much due to age as to the constant need to bend at the waist to avoid bashing his head on the low ceiling.
His name, if he ever had one, has long since been forgotten. By the mad king, by the dukes, the counts, the barons, and, indeed, even by his mother. And so they call him by the only appellation to which he responds...Monsieur T.
There no redeeming features to this poor discarded offal of life, save one: Monsieur T is known to make the one special brew that the king loves above and beyond all other things. It was for that expressed purpose that he had been knighted by the king himself. As he trundled about his chores of preparing a new batch of his special brew, T thought back that wonderful day….
“We knight thee Sir…err…umm…T,” the king had said – obviously stammering with the joy of the occasion.”
*People jeered in the background, commenting on English breakfast drinks*
“Sir…ummm…T…ahhh, You shall be granted new estates in…that is to say you shall be granted a new room in the du…no…wait…I’ve got it…I’ll have someone sweep the dungeon once a week for you, and you will therefore receive the hereditary title of…of…err…master T….MrT for short!" the king concluded with triumphal (if not maniacal) glee.
“Please stand up so everybody can see you! Here is your bottle of wine, symbol of your new rank."
T wiped a tear from his eye, and squeezed another few rats into the vat…