by Paul Doherty
'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, yes, Benjamin and I had also been to university but, due to minor misunderstandings, had both been asked to leave before we received our degrees. Well, who cares?)
On Easter Sunday, just after morning Mass, Benjamin, as Lord of the Manor, announced the opening of his school to his incredulous parishioners. My master expected little response. Sometimes he could be the most idealistic of fools! The villagers, however, took him at his word, only too willing to dump their scruffy-arsed offspring on him between the hours of ten and five. Benjamin didn't mind.
He took to schoolmastering like a duck to water. Horn books, quills, pens, ink horns, an abacus and rolls of parchment were bought. The hall was invaded by legions of snotty-nosed, tousle-haired, black-faced imps. I feared the little bastards would destroy the place but Benjamin was always good with children. He had a way of listening to them as if their every word was a pearl of wisdom. Sometimes I joined him in the school room.
You see, usually I worked on the accounts and managed the estate. We raised sheep, corn and crops for the local market and sold hunting rights to our neighbours. The work proved no real challenge for me. Benjamin always thought the smooth running of our affairs was due to his just treatment of others. Don't you believe it! The best gamekeepers are former poachers and no one took old Shallot for a ride.
Anyway, I'd go down to the schoolroom. The place seemed awash with dirty, little ankle-biters; some sat on benches, others squatted on the floor listening like round-eyed owls as Benjamin revealed the secrets of Mathematics, the divine truths of the Gospels and, for the most able, the courtly hand, as well as the basics of Greek, Latin, Geometry and Geography. Do you know, I envied him? Take Shallot's word for it, most people couldn't give a rat's arse about anyone else but Benjamin was different.
However, I soon tired of his attempts to help our neighbours. On the Monday after Low Sunday, I saddled my horse, loaded a sumpter pony, tied a money belt round my waist, grasped sword and dagger and made my farewells.
Hell's teeth, I remember it well! A beautiful spring morning. The sun made the mullioned glass of the manor house windows shimmer like pools of light. The air was thick and sweet with the smell of fresh-cut grass and the wild flowers which Benjamin had allowed to flourish in front of the hall. My master, his eyes heavy with sleep, came out to bid me farewell. He stood holding the bridle of my horse and stared innocently up at me like one of the children from his own school room.
'You will take care, Roger? You'll come home if aught happens?'
I clasped his hand. 'I'll take care, master,' I lied. 'I have a letter for our banker, Master Waller in the Mercery. If I run out of silver there's more there.'
'What,' Benjamin asked, his eyes narrowing, 'are you going to do?'
'Make my fortune, master.'
He smiled. 'Then make your fortune, Roger, and if Great-uncle sends for me, I shall come for you in London. Where will you lodge?'
I chewed my lip and stared into the faint mist being burnt off by the early morning sun. The last thing I wanted was Great-uncle interfering! I was tempted to lie but, thank God, I decided to break a lifelong habit and tell the truth.
'Near St Paul's,' I replied. 'There's a printer's under the Red Sign and next to it a tavern, the Golden Turk. You know it? I will lodge there.'
I clasped my master's hand and, spurring my horse, rode bravely down the tree-lined path, the hooves of the pack pony behind me digging up flurries of white dust. I felt like a knight-errant riding out for adventure. Little did I know I was a fool slipping into danger and the black shadow of Benjamin's great-uncle would soon trap me.
My journey was uneventful enough. When I was young,
England seemed green and fresh, in the morning-time of its life. No armies marched the land, no great lords unfurled the banners of rebellion. The Great Killer saw to that. Even then no one dared cross him and he had yet to show the dark side of his soul and prove Merlin's prophecy that he was 'The Mouldwarp’ who would drown his kingdom in a sea of blood'.
The abbeys and priories I passed slumbered gently in the lee of fresh green hills, unaware of the destruction about to crawl from the hellish pit of Henry's lusts. The villages, hamlets and the red-tile-roofed manors boasted their peace and prosperity for Henry was still living on the treasure bequeathed to him by his father. He had not yet unleashed his army of tax gatherers, commissioners, purveyors and assessors. The bridges were mended, the ruts in the roads filled in, the spring corn sown, and fat-tailed sheep browsed in the fields.
Oh, there were signs of the furies to come. At crossroads the gibbets provided plump carrion for the hungry crows and ravens; landless men turned out of their fields as the great lords changed to tending sheep rather than raising crops. Some were sturdy beggars, thieves and rogues but now and again you passed the honest yeomen, the skeletal, white-faced, puny children and worried, dark-eyed wives who tramped the roads looking for work. Shallot did what he could. I have a list of vices as long as your arm but I am not mean. I scattered pennies and rode on like a young lord through Aldgate and into London.
Now, I have always loved that city, its stench, the colour, bustle and noise, the way the blood beats ever faster through your veins. I had worked there many years before as a footman in one of old Mother Nightbird's molly houses, from where she sold plump, perfumed flesh to the great lords and merchants of the city. Now things were different. At nineteen Shallot was virtuous, a prosperous man soon to be a merchant prince who would show both Master Benjamin and the great Wolsey that he could rise without their help. I rode through Cheapside, greedily drinking in the sights and sounds. I noted with envy the gold-embossed timber mansions of the merchants, the stalls in front of them piled high with goods of every kind: rich cloth of gold, rolls of murrey, silks and satins, leather bottles, Spanish riding boots, gold cord and testers, blankets of pure wool, and tapestries heavy with silver needlework and gold filigree.
The air dinned with the cries of the apprentices, the roar of the crowd, the curses of carpenters, whilst in every corner hawkers and tinkers
shouted their wares. Young nobles from the court, their horses' harness shining in the sunlight, rode through with hawks, falcons and peregrines perched on their wrists, cruel faces hidden by small leather hoods, jesses tinkling like the bells of a tiny church.
I found the Golden Turk where it nestled in a small alleyway, just beneath the great mass of St Paul's. A fine, well-kept establishment, three storeys high, made all the more welcoming by horn-glazed windows, the beams smartly painted and the white plaster glowing like freshly laid snow. The landlord knew me, for Benjamin and I often lodged there when we came up to town. I did think of going down to Syon House but remembered Benjamin's instructions never to approach Johanna without him being present for she dwelt in a twilight world where every man, except Benjamin, was her seducer.
So I made myself at home at the Golden Turk; the two-faced landlord greeted me civilly enough, providing a chamber on the second floor with a pallet bed and a few sticks of furniture. He also promised to change the sheets and rushes at least once every six weeks, provide stabling for my horse as well as a meal at morning and night for myself. On my first day there I acted like a young lord, lying on my bed, my boots on, sipping from a cup of canary and wondering what steps I should take next.
However, business is business and pleasure is pleasure. I went down to the tap room and ordered a meal though I was hungrier for the dark-eyed slattern I had glimpsed on my last visit with Benjamin.
She was a veritable Venus with her dark eyes and black, curling hair which tumbled down to her shoulders. And what shoulders! White as marble, with the juiciest and roundest pair of tits I had ever clapped eyes on. (There goes my chaplain again, squirming on his stool. I notice he does that whenever I talk about my 'amours', my little love trysts. The colour of his face always reddens just as it does when fat Margot, the launderess, who keeps me supplied with cups of sack, bends and dips to provide me with a generous view of the most famous cleavage in all of Surrey.)
Anyway, on that spring day so many years ago, I lounged around, teasing and humouring the girl. Now you know the way of the flesh! A glance, a smile, a love cup shared, silver exchanged, then heigh-ho to the bed-chamber. Lack-aday, lackaday, what a time we had! We bounced round on that pallet bed, so much laughing and shouting that the landlord came up. He banged on our door, saying he was running an honest house, not some bawdy shop in Southwark. When the bed collapsed under us and the girl's shrieks could be heard in the taproom below, the landlord came up again shouting abuse through the door, but I ignored him. He knew what the girl was when he hired her, the bald-faced hypocrite!
The next morning I decided to begin my business. I rose, broke my fast and slipped the landlord some pieces of silver which made his vinegarish face look more congenial and subservient. The maid -I think her name was Anna -looked a little more tired and heavy-eyed after her exertions of the previous evening. I, however, strutted out like a barnyard cock, booted and cloaked, a broad-brimmed hat on my head with a black and white plume hanging from it. I thought I was a Hector and Paris combined. Good Lord, the folly of youth! I decided to go to St Paul's, walk past Duke Humphrey's tomb and along the Mediterranean, the main aisle where most men did business; there, the dirty round pillars were festooned with notices, men and women begging for work or prospective employers offering terms. At one end the professional scriveners sat at their desks, quills and parchment at the ready, to draw up wills, indentures, bills of sale, a letter to a friend or a billet doux to a lover. At the other end lawyers, in ermine-edged cloaks, touted for business, serjeants-at-law consulted clients, and outside in the porch, booksellers and pamphleteers did a roaring trade.
Now I avoided all of these. I was looking for a business venture worthy of my silver, some trade across the Narrow Seas or perhaps commerce with the Baltic. You see, in my youth trade was close. The Cabots had sailed for Newfoundland but that was as far as it went. The seas down the west coast of Africa and the routes to the Hispanic colonies across the Atlantic were not yet open for English ships. We had no sea dogs, no Frobishers or Grenvilles who would fight their way past Spanish galleons. And, of course, there was no Drake. (I knew Sir Francis. Have I told you the story? I was playing bowls with him when the Great Armada was spotted off Lizard Point and the beacons along the south coast flared into life. I am sure you must have heard the tale? When the messenger arrived to inform Drake of the possible invasion, the old sea dog announced he would finish his game of bowls, then he would finish off the Spanish. The red-bearded pirate was telling a lie! I had wagered a purse that I would beat him at bowls and Drake never could resist gold. Moreover, it was I who wet my finger to test the wind and pointed out that, even if he wanted to leave the game, it would be no use. The wind had to change before his fighting ships could sail against the Spanish. My chaplain says I am a liar. What the bloody hell does he know? I drank with all our great sailors. Of course, the greatest is Raleigh. He is still at sea with the silver I gave him to discover fresh treasure. He says he can find his way up the Orinoco and discover the Seven Cities of Gold where the streets are paved with precious metals, and dusky, full-bosomed maidens scatter gems and pennies. I only hope the old sea dog is telling the truth!)
Lackaday, I digress! In Fat Harry's time business was not so adventurous. Merchants came to St Paul's and walked up and down, thumbs pushed into their belts, looking for gold and bullion to invest in their ventures: wool to Flanders, wine from Gascony, wood to Italy, silks and costly fabrics from Venice and the mills of Florence. I ignored such men with their closed faces and pinched noses. Their pompous promises and grandiloquent phrases failed to convince me so I quickly took the air in the graveyard where all the wolfs-heads, villains and counterfeit men hid from the law. You see, St Paul's used to be a sanctuary, a refuge against the sheriff's men and, as long as you stayed there, you were safe. I wondered if some of my old cronies from my days with old Mother Nightbird were still lurking there. I stalked amongst the booths and ramshackle dwellings built against the wall. Lord, I have never seen such a collection of rogues, palliards and foists! Indeed, the whole canting crew. I kept one hand on my sword hilt and the other on my wallet as I mentally phrased the letter I intended to send to Cardinal Wolsey demanding the graveyard be cleared of such a collection of villains.
At length I grew tired and went back to the joys of the tavern, both the board and the bed. The only curious thing was that I found in my room a handbill from a Frenchman trying to solicit backers to export parchment to France and import wine into England. I read it with interest, then forgot it. The next day I returned to St Paul's and, this time, was successful.
It must have been noon, the time for the Angelus, and the bells of the cathedral clanging fit to break when I first caught sight of the fellow. He was dressed soberly in a dark brown jerkin with leggings of the same colour pushed into black soft leather boots. His grey cloak was of pure wool pushed back over his shoulders, yet it was his face which attracted me. His features reminded me of Benjamin; kindly, honest and open. Now you know Shallot's golden rule: It takes one rogue to know another, and a real rogue to recognise an honest man. This man was very honest. He had a number of handbills which he was distributing to everyone who passed so I took one nonchalantly and his kind, brown eyes smiled. He must have been about fifty summers old, his copper-coloured face was lined, his swept back hair silver-grey, but the moustache and the neatly clipped beard still showed traces of a golden youth.
I sauntered into a pie shop and carefully scrutinised the handbill which declared its distributor to be a foreigner: Jean Pierre Ralemberg, from Dijon, with a dwelling and warehouse in an alley off Bread Street. Basically, the man was a parchment-seller trying to raise good hard silver or gold to finance the export of parchment to Nantes and the import of wine. Now, I don't want to give you a boring lesson about the markets of the day, suffice to say that in 1520 hard cash was rare, most of it being tied up in fields, lands and houses, so it was natural for people like Ralemberg to tout for business.
It was an intriguing prospect and I was all the more curious why I had found one of his handbills in my chamber at the Golden Turk. On the one hand I suspected a trap, but on the other the man was patently honest. I sat in the pie shop kicking my heels and pondering the problem. The landlord of the Golden Turk didn't know about the handbill, so who had put it there? Was it some anonymous well-wisher or was I being manipulated?
I slowly munched diced meat pie stuffed with herbs. The Frenchman looked honest and I was shrewd enough to recognise a prosperous trade venture. English parchment was needed all over Europe, whilst in England French wines would always be sold. You see, neither commodity could go stale. Indeed, the longer you kept them, the better they became. I walked back to St Paul's and found Ralemberg leaning despondently against a pillar, tapping the handbills against the side of his leg. I strode up and doffed my hat.
'Monsieur Ralemberg, I am Roger Shallot. I have read your announcement. You look hungry. Perhaps we could dine and talk?'
The Frenchman's eyes were guarded. 'You are young,' he murmured.
'What difference does that make to my silver?'
He made a face. 'No, the truth is you look like a rogue.'
'That's because I am one,' I answered. 'However, my word is good, though my silver is better.'
Ralemberg grinned. 'An honest rogue! We shall eat, and we shall talk. You will buy the food but I will provide the wine.'
Well, it was heigh-ho for the nearest cookshop and, if I remember correctly, a quail pie, the crust golden and crisp, the meat fresh and smothered in a rich sauce, and a jug of new Bordeaux. I never forget good meals. I mean, if you have starved like I have in the wilds of Muscovy or the deserts of North Africa, you always remember what you have eaten. I can swear to every pie I have swallowed, to every cup of sack I have gulped, to the few good women I have met and, thankfully, to every bad woman I have slept with. Ah, well, back to that cookshop.
