The Poisoned Chalice

by Michael Clynes

  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.

  At first, Ralemberg told me about himself. I suspected there was a mystery behind his banal description of a parchment-seller born and raised at Nantes in Brittany; a stationer who knew how to work the new presses from Gutenberg and, for reasons he kept to himself, had moved both his family and business to England. I didn't tell him about the handbill I had found; indeed, I quickly dismissed that as a mere coincidence. Moreover, the wine loosened

  Ralemberg's tongue and the more he spoke the more convinced I became that his trading venture would be the basis of my own success. He had, so he related, the service of a trusted captain and a three-masted, seaworthy cog, sailing out of London. Ralemberg intended to export parchment to Brittany and, for the homeward journey, his ship would bring wine to the London market.

  'I couldn't sell it myself,' he declared. 'And nor could you. We are not members of the Vintners' Guild. But we could sell it to the wine merchants themselves and still make a handsome profit.'

  I leaned back against the high, wooden bench, assessing Ralemberg as a true businessman who knew the workings of the London market. In turn he came quickly to the point: his venture needed capital and what monies he had were tied up in his house. He chattered about bills of sale, the purchase of canvas and parchment, the cost of carters and the money needed for ship and crew.

  'What about warehouses?' I asked.

  'I have a house off Bread Street,' he replied, 'with vacant rooms and a dry, stone-vaulted cellar. All I need,' he repeated, 'is the money to move this business.'

  So it was his turn to ask questions and, of course, I only told him what I wanted to. No! Not lies, the truth - albeit cut and tailored to suit my own purposes. Ralemberg studied me attentively throughout and I glimpsed the disbelief in his eyes. A true rogue recognises an honest man so, I suppose, a truly honest man can recognise a rogue. My grandiose descriptions faltered so I undid my money belt and emptied one of the pouches on the table.

  'That's my surety,' I said. 'You can take it as a pledge of my good faith.'

  (This is one of my favourite roles, putting my money where others put hot air and spit.)

  Ralemberg pushed the coins back at me.

  'I want to be honest!' I burst out.

  'Don't we all, Master Shallot? If I took your silver, I would only be a thief. But, come, let me show you the warehouse you asked about.'

  We rose and he took me a short distance to Bread Street. His house was a three-storeyed affair. The horn windows were dusty and holed, the paintwork on the beams cracked and the front door swung crookedly on its hinges. Ralemberg just shrugged and grinned apologetically. Inside, however, it smelt sweet and clean. (The French are always more precise in such matters than the English.) We went down a passageway to a small panelled hall. I remember it being dark-beamed with windows high in the wall and wax candles already lit. Rugs covered the floor and a lap dog played before a small log fire. On one side of the fireplace a grey-haired woman was absorbed in some needlework whilst on the other side, with her back to us, a young girl crouched over a book, loudly reciting a French poem in a voice shot through with gaiety and laughter.

  An old servant, bald as a badger, yellow-faced and wizened, bustled towards us with all the speed of a snail; he mumbled apologies in French but Ralemberg just tapped him gently on the shoulder and told him not to worry. Of course, our entrance disturbed the domestic tableau around the fireplace. Both women rose with cries of joy. Madame Ralemberg was truly French, dark olive features, expressive eyes and neatly coiffed hair. She looked merry, though her eyes were guarded. She studied me suspiciously and this strengthened my belief that Ralemberg had his own secrets. The other woman, Ralemberg's daughter . . . well, how can you describe a poem in the flesh? She must have been sixteen or seventeen summers old, tall and slender, and her eyes were as blue as a clear summer sky. She had the face of an angel, high cheek bones and perfectly formed nose and mouth. If she had been at court the young dandies would have written odes and sonnets to her eyebrows, her finger nails and her sweet rose mouth. Good Lord, she was beautiful!

  She was dressed simply enough in a brown gown with a lacy ruff round the neck but she would have outshone any queen. Her voice was low and musical and her command of English only enhanced by a slight French accent. She said something to me, a simple introduction, but all I could do was stare open-mouthed at her. Suddenly she giggled and I realised I was still holding her fingers. You see, it was those eyes, so blue in a face so dark, one of God's most beautiful mixtures. I have met such women since, young girls from the west of Ireland, but Agnes Ralemberg was the queen.

  Believe me, if the eyes are the windows of the soul, then Agnes's soul was as beautiful as she looked. She was totally guileless, honest, with a mordant sense of humour and sardonic wit. She knew me to be a rogue as soon as she clapped eyes on me and, whilst her father ushered me to a seat, she watched girlishly out of the corner of her eye. She was laughing at me but I didn't care.

  Ralemberg talked and I listened. As far as I was concerned he could have my every piece of silver if he just allowed me to gaze at his daughter. Good Lord, I feel tears pricking my eyes now. Old Shallot, who would be under a woman's skirts, given half a chance, sat tongue-tied before this chit of a young girl. Do you know, I was frightened of her - or was I shy? (My chaplain is smirking. He had better be careful! Agnes was one of the great loves of my life. Indeed, the first and only one. Perhaps I loved those who came after because they were faint imitations of her.) Ah well, Ralemberg chattered gaily, then took me on a tour of the house. I walked like some sleepwalker as he showed me empty rooms and a steep, stone-vaulted cellar.

  Afterwards, when I would have preferred to stay and stare at Agnes, he took me down to King's Wharf near the Vintry and into a small ale house which stank of carp and salt. He introduced me to burly, red-faced Bertrand de Macon, the master of a fat-bellied cog and prospective third partner in our business venture. We sat and drank, discussing sea routes, harbour charges, the hiring of a crew, the wine markets and the stowing of cargo. To be sure, I was rather bemuse
d but the honesty of both men was apparent. De Macon was a born sailor who had braved the storms of Biscay. He agreed to do the first voyage there and back before receiving payment, as long as Ralemberg agreed to underwrite the voyage, using his house as collateral. I would buy the parchment and arrange its transport down to the wharves and we concluded that, if we sold the wine brought back on the first voyage, we would make a profit.

  We all shook hands and drank to seal our agreement before returning to St Paul's and the desks of the scriveners where a tripartite indenture was drawn up. We agreed on two voyages from the Thames to Nantes and then we would review the situation. The duties of each of us were carefully delineated. However, before I signed, Ralemberg took me outside. I thought he wished to impart further information but, with the speed of a striking cat, he suddenly pulled his dagger, nicking my neck with its point.

  'Master Shallot,' he whispered. 'My daughter Agnes - your intentions must be honourable.'

  Do you know, I wasn't one bit afraid? It was one of the few times in my life when I actually spoke the truth. I held up my right hand.

  'Monsieur,' I declared, 'you have my word as your business partner that my intentions towards your daughter are perfectly honourable.'

  Ralemberg smiled, sheathed his dagger and clapped me on the shoulder. We went back inside and signed the indentures, the scrivener cutting the parchment into three and keeping a duplicate copy. Letters were then drawn up to be enrolled at the Court of Chancery so we would have the necessary licence to trade. Well, what more can I say? I skipped back to the tavern as merry as a schoolboy intent on his holiday.

  Now, the day had grown dark but I was a burly rogue, carrying sword and dagger, yet my assailants just seemed to step out of the shadows. They didn't attack me: my arms were pinioned and I was turned round, my face pressed into the dank wall of the alleyway. Perhaps it was the wine I had drunk but I only gave a short yell before my hair was grabbed and my head jerked violently back.

  'Monsieur!' a voice hissed. 'Do not struggle! There are four of us. We mean you no harm but Monsieur Ralemberg is not the man he appears. It would be best if you looked for another business partner.'

  'What do you mean?' I stuttered, my usual cowardice now taking hold. 'Ralemberg . . . who is he?'

  'Monsieur,' the voice repeated slowly, 'you should not be worried about Monsieur Ralemberg but rather us.'

  One of my hands was seized and, strange upon strange, a small wax candle thrust into my palm.

  'Next time you meet Monsieur Ralemberg, just tell him his old friends the Luciferi are with him!'

  Suddenly a voice bellowed from the top of the alleyway.

  'You, sirs! What are you doing?'

  My face was banged against the wall and my assailants disappeared. I crouched, holding my bruised temple and cursing the arrow of pain which coursed through my face. My rescuers were three bully boys, swords and daggers stuck through their waists. You know the type, with their tight hose, protruding codpieces, puffed doublets and short cloaks. They didn't chase my assailants but helped me to my feet, solicitously enquiring after my health. It was dark, I couldn't make out their features, but I was terrified that I had jumped from the pot into the flames. Even then I should have known something was wrong. Why should three bully boys help a stranger in a darkened alleyway off Cheapside? However, they caused me no ill and I staggered back to the Golden Turk and the tender care of the slattern, a bowl of rich broth and countless frothing tankards of ale.

  Chapter 2

  The next morning I awoke anxious over what had happened. I stared wonderingly at the small, wax candle which I had thrown on to the floor of my chamber. I forgot about my rescuers, I was more concerned by the Luciferi.

  I knew enough Latin to know this name meant the Light-Bearers, Satan's name before he was thrown out of heaven. But who were these Light-Bearers? I wondered. A rival company? Personal enemies of Ralemberg? I felt my stomach lurch and my heart beat a little faster. My hands felt clammy, the usual signs of old Shallot beginning to wonder whether it is time to cut and run. My elation of the previous day began to evaporate until I remembered Agnes, the indentures I had signed, and the basic honesty of Ralemberg and de Macon. I washed, dressed, strapped on my sword belt and strutted out, quietly vowing that a group of cut-throats and alley-sneakers could not frighten this new Merchant Prince. Oh, Lord, the foolishness of youth!

  I went straight to Ralemberg's house, hungry to see the ever-smiling Agnes. My poor heart soared like a bird when she agreed to accompany me and her father to a parchment-seller in Lothbury. We kept off the beaten track, away from those traders who fixed high prices, for Shallot knew where to go. This shop or that, then across London Bridge under the rotting, decapitated heads of traitors to a small parchment-seller's in Southwark. The gods smile on those they intend to destroy, and within three days the parchment we bought up was carted down to de Macon's cog and hoisted aboard. The captain was as happy as a pig in the mire.

  'Better this,' he bellowed, 'than begging for trade from Westminster to the Wool Quay!'

  He explained how, due to the cessation of hostilities between England and France, the hiring of vessels was now cheap and easy and, for what he had to sell, it was a buyer's market.

  Two days later he sailed and I, forgetful of all dangers, was now in my seventh heaven. (One of my few virtues. When I am happy, I can't give a rat's arse about anything else!) Ralemberg was likeable. He reminded me of Benjamin with his dry wit, sardonic observations and palpable honesty. We roamed the streets together looking for possible future providers of parchment and, taking advantage of the good weather, rode north to Oxford to the parchment-sellers along Holywell and Broad Street as well as the little shops on the Turl near Exeter College.

  Of course, there was always Agnes, and I lived for the nights when I joined the Ralembergs for their simple meal. The Frenchman treated me like a son; his wife was a little more distant and cool so I complimented her and brought her small gifts, wooing her as if she was the maid. As for my beloved, what shall I say? One memory will always remain. Seventy-five years later, whenever I feel the sun on my face, it springs as fresh in my mind as if it occurred yesterday. There was a small garden at the back of Ralemberg's house where the roses grew wild, their stems trailing over the small banks of herbs. The garden was cut off from its neighbour by a high red brick wall. Ralemberg would sit with his wife in a flower-covered bower sharing a loving cup whilst Agnes and I would walk among the roses. At first she was shy but then she chattered about Nantes, how she missed the dark woods and green fields of Brittany. She gave me the names of all her friends and said how proud she was of the life her father had given her. Sometimes I would hold her lightly by the finger-tips and try to steer the conversation to matters of the heart, but she would blush and her beautiful eyes look down. She would shake her head and deftly speak of other matters, though never about her father's past.

  Now, I knew some French. You may remember I spent some time in Paris - not the most pleasant of times - freezing in the snow, chased by wolves and being half-hanged at Montfaucon. Hence I had a working knowledge of the language and sometimes, at table, could follow the conversation, though when the Ralembergs lapsed into patois this became impossible. During these conversations their manner would be grave, their faces serious. One word they kept repeating was the Latin 'Luciferi' and I remembered my assailants in the alley. Nevertheless, I still believed this was a reference to a rival company and, as my attackers never returned, the memory of their dark threats receded. Or did it? Sometimes I felt I was being followed or watched whilst seated in a tavern or moving amongst the stalls in Cheapside. I had this feeling of menace, of quiet watchfulness.

  Oh, yes, I felt tempted to question the Ralembergs. Once I did ask Agnes about the Luciferi but the girl just paled and shook her head.

  'You must never mention that word again,' she whispered.

  I was happy enough to let the matter drop. The weeks passed, a full month in all. De M
acon's ship went to Brittany and back, the voyage helped by fair winds and calm seas. The ship returned with a hold full of wines and a handsome profit. Ralemberg insisted on meeting de Macon first, saying he wished to discuss some secret matter, so I joined them later in a small tavern on the corner of Vintry and La Reole. We toasted our success, de Macon informing us that the market was a prosperous one. Ralemberg said he already had a buyer for the wine, a vintner living in Trinity. We then laid plans for the next voyage.

  I had now used most of my silver and, despite our profits, had to draw heavily, even borrow some more from the goldsmith, Waller, in his musty old shop in Mercery. At first, the tight old sod wasn't going to lend me a penny. (Have you noticed that about bankers? If you have money the bastards want to lend you it; if you haven't and want to borrow, they tell you to go to hell.) Anyway, this old miser drew up an indenture and the monies were made available. We bought cartloads of parchment from Charterhouse, Oxford and even sent orders to places as far north as Norwich and Cambridge.

  On the day before de Macon sailed on his second voyage, the Ralembergs invited me to a formal supper. I was delighted. My wooing of Agnes was proceeding apace. I had bought her small gifts, I had kissed her hand whilst on May Day I'd helped deck the house with green boughs and later took her to dance around a Maypole set up near Cattle Street. However, when I went to the house that night I found the Ralembergs upset. Even the jovial de Macon was pale-faced and withdrawn. Agnes looked timid and I could hear the old servant weeping in the scullery. My hosts shuffled their feet and the meal was unusually silent but, when darkness had fallen and the candles on the table threw huge, black shadows against the wall, Ralemberg filled my glass to the brim, went back to his own chair and nodded at his wife.