The Poisoned Chalice

by Michael Clynes

  'Master Shallot,' he began, 'we have our secrets and you have yours.' He waved a hand. 'I shall tell you why we left France.'

  He stared down at the white damask tablecloth; I sipped my wine and studied the faces of the others. If anything, their fear had increased.

  'What's the matter?' I asked testily.

  'I am the matter,' Ralemberg answered. 'I was born in Brittany. That was an independent province until Duke Francis died, leaving his daughter Anne as his only heir. She was seized, married off to Charles VIII of France, and Brittany was absorbed into a greater France.' Ralemberg smiled wanly. 'Now Brittany had been given assurances by the present King of England's father that the Tudors would fight to protect Brittany's independence.' He shrugged. 'It just goes to show, princes are liars.'

  (Well, that came as no surprise to me. Old Henry VII, father to the Great Killer, was a born miser and inveterate liar who wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit him on the nose. Oh, by the way, Charles VIII of France was no better. He was a pygmy, an ugly little bastard, forever jumping on the ladies of the court as if he was a dog on heat. He fancied himself as a new Alexander and said he wanted to learn more about the Renaissance in the neighbouring country, so he invaded Italy. Charles sacked city after city. He also found syphilis, the first time that disease appeared in Europe. His soldiers caught it outside Naples and, when their balls began to drop off, he retreated. You must have heard how Charles died? Supposedly, he wandered into a darkened room and banged his head on a cupboard. I know different. He was murdered. I have met the assassin who was on top of the cupboard!)

  'Brittany became part of France,' Ralemberg continued. 'I didn't care either way. I went to university at the Sorbonne in Paris, entered the royal service, and joined the French crown's legion of secret agents called the Luciferi, the Light-Bearers. These men move in the shadows. They do not act in the full light of day but deal in subtle trickery, clever fetches, secret assassinations, and every filthy trick of the devil. I became a high-ranking officer under the chief archangel, Vauban.'

  He chewed his lip. 'The archangel is the title given to the leader of the Luciferi. He is appointed personally by the French king. I admit I was party to their tricks for a while but in Brittany the Luciferi began to remove, through assassination or spurious trials, any who opposed the French crown. One of these was my own brother who led the resistance in the countryside around Nantes.' He looked down at his splayed fingers. 'I suppose,' he murmured, 'that brought me to my senses. I began to see the Luciferi as evil. I fled from them and joined the rebels in Brittany.' He looked at the sea captain. 'De Macon was also one of us. When the resistance broke, I fled with what possessions I had.'

  Ralemberg looked sharply at me. 'What's the matter, Roger? I thought you'd say this is England, the Luciferi have no power here?'

  'I have met the Luciferi,' I replied, and heard Madame Ralemberg moan as I briefly described my assailants in the alleyway and the appearance of my mysterious protectors.

  'Why didn't you tell us?' Ralemberg snapped.

  'I thought they were another company, personal enemies. Threats,' I continued bravely, 'do not deter me. But you are right, Monsieur, this is England and the Luciferi have no real power.'

  'The Luciferi are everywhere,' de Macon replied. 'Why do you think Monsieur Ralemberg needed your silver and gold? You were not the only one attracted by his business ventures. The Luciferi frightened the rest off.'

  'Strange,' I mused.

  'What is?'

  'Well, Monsieur, before I met you in St Paul's, I found one of your handbills in my chamber at the Golden Turk. Would the Luciferi have put it there?'

  'Yes, that is strange,' Ralemberg murmured. 'And you say that some others protected you?'

  I nodded. He smiled thinly.

  'You must have powerful protectors, Master Shallot.' 'What do you mean?'

  'Well, the Luciferi threatened you but they were apparently warned off by someone more powerful.'

  I went cold. I had this dreadful feeling that my journey to London and my meeting with this Frenchman had all been carefully managed by Cardinal Wolsey and his blackguard, Doctor Agrippa. Was that why Benjamin had let me go? Was that the reason I found the handbill in my chamber? I thought back. Everything had gone so smoothly. Here was I writing to Benjamin, boasting about being a merchant prince, and it had all been contrived. Now, I'd mentioned Benjamin to the Ralembergs but told them nothing about his near kinsman, the great cardinal.

  'Monsieur,' I snapped, 'were you told about me before we met?'

  Ralemberg shook his head. 'No,' he answered. 'All I do know is that others who approached me were warned off. At first, I thought it was just the Luciferi but, on one occasion, I am sure it was due to intervention from the English court.'

  'Why?' I asked.

  'Why what?'

  'Why is the English court interested in you?'

  Ralemberg smiled and gently removed the crumbs from the table with the tips of his fingers. His companions sat frozen like statues, watching me intently. I am sure de Macon had his hand on his dagger hilt and I realised for all they knew I could be a member of the Luciferi. That's why de Macon was present, in case their gamble went wrong.

  'I accepted you, Roger,' Ralemberg said, 'because I liked you. I also suspected that you had powerful patrons, someone high in your king's court.' He licked his lips. 'I was given sanctuary in England in return for information about the Luciferi.' He shrugged. 'You know, the usual details: names, places, agents, ciphers and letters. I told them all I knew except the one thing the great cardinal wanted.' 'Which is?'

  'The Luciferi have a spy, a very high-ranking spy, at the English court who provides the French with information about Henry's plans against France, even before such plans are implemented. Cardinal Wolsey thought I knew his name.'

  'And do you?'

  'No, only that the Luciferi call him Raphael, but Wolsey already knew that.' 'You say "him"?'

  'Yes.' Ralemberg smiled bleakly. 'Yes, you're right, Roger, it could be a woman. All I know is the name Raphael.'

  'But Wolsey,' I persisted, 'and the Luciferi, think you know the identity of Raphael?' He nodded.

  'So why don't the Luciferi just kill you?'

  'My dear Roger, in London there are spies in the service of the Papacy, the Doge of Venice, the Emperor of the Romans, Ferdinand of Aragon . . . and the same is true of every capital in Europe. They are like parasites. They are tolerated here because France tolerates English agents in Paris, but there are certain limitations on their actions - blatant assassination is one of them. Moreover, as soon as the English think I know the name of their traitor, I will be kept safe.'

  I leaned back in my chair and studied Agnes's white face. I smiled to hide my own unease. Were Wolsey and Doctor Agrippa somehow managing me? I wondered. Did they think I would loosen Ralemberg's tongue or stir his memory?

  'So why do you tell me all this now?' I accused.

  'This afternoon,' de Macon spoke up, 'the Luciferi made their presence felt.'

  Ralemberg pulled a small package from inside his doublet. He unrolled the piece of linen. In the centre lay a small, pure white beeswax candle stamped with the fleur de lys of France. I picked it up and studied it curiously. It was identical to the one thrust into my hand in the alleyway. It looked so simple, so pure, yet it had held terrors for the Ralembergs and would be the beginning of fresh horrors for me.

  'You should be careful,' de Macon murmured.

  Of course, Shallot made light of it. I joked and teased them all until some of the heaviness lifted. I didn't give a damn about the Luciferi. Benjamin's uncle would protect us! I was more concerned with persuading Agnes to go for a walk in the tree-lined garden, and foolishly dismissed the Ralembergs' unease.

  The next day de Macon sailed. I wrote a short letter to Benjamin, proclaiming myself a merchant but asking if his uncle had written to him recently. I made the letter sound as if all was well, and I suppose it was.


  (I must pause. I can hear the little chaplain sniggering at me, the loathsome turd! He murmurs that my success is a fable like that of Dick Whittington who became Lord Mayor of London fifty years previously. Why should the little sod laugh? Can't old Shallot have a run of luck? Oh, no, the little bastard's more interested in seeing his patron, his generous master, hunted, beaten and starving in some rotting gaol or facing terrors which would reduce many a man to an inmate of Bedlam. Well, the little sod needn't worry, he can have his fill of all that before this murderous tale is finished.)

  Four days after the Ralembergs told me about the Luciferi, I was in the Golden Turk carousing by myself. My partner had told me there were private matters he wished to attend to. I shrugged and left him alone. Now, isn't it strange how terrors begin? A band of gamesters joined me, with a cupful of dice and purses jingling merrily. Sturdy rogues intent on fleecing me, as I was them. The wine flowed freely, my pile of silver grew. The blood in my veins ran high and my usually sharp wits dulled. Young men who read this, take Shallot's advice! First, never drink and gamble; secondly, never drink and gamble with strangers; thirdly, if you do fall into temptation, as I sometimes did, make sure you know where the wine comes from. Anyway, I became as drunk as a vicar. The noise grew, flashes of fire burst before my eyes. I danced, I sang. I threw my largesse round the emptying tap room. I was full of joy at the prospect of meeting Agnes the next day. At last I fell back on to my stool and into the blackness of a drunken stupor. But, oh, what a wakening! I felt as if I was at the end of a long tunnel where someone was kicking my legs. I opened my eyes, groaned at the sunlight and peered around.

  'The bastard's awake.'

  A grizzled, bearded face pushed itself into mine. I looked away. I was in a garden, my clothes wet with dew. My head thumped with pain, my mouth tasted foul and stale. I was ringed by men, some in armour, and recognised the blue and mustard livery of the City of London. I struggled to rise but my arms were pinioned. I was dragged to my feet. My wrists were tied behind my back, an iron brace fixed around my neck and the long chain which hung from it secured round my ankles.

  'For sweet pity's sake!' I murmured.

  The soldier whose ugly face I had glimpsed on wakening punched me in the mouth. I turned and retched. I peered round once again. I was in the Ralembergs' garden where something black and white was floating in the small carp pond. I stared closer. It was the corpse of Agnes's dog. Thick blood from its slashed throat appeared to buoy it up. Over in the bower where Ralemberg and his wife used to sit were four corpses, each covered by a dirty, canvas sheet. I glimpsed the feet peeping out from beneath.

  'Sweet mercy!' I cried. 'What's happened?'

  The soldier seized me by the hair and pushed me across the garden. On his command the sheets were dragged back. How can I describe it? Ralemberg and his wife sprawled there, their throats gashed from ear to ear. The blood had splashed out, drenching their clothes. Agnes was different. Her neck was broken, carefully and expertly. She lay there as if asleep, those beautiful eyes half-open. Beside her the pathetic corpse of the servant, the garotte cord still round his scrawny neck. I howled like a dog, struggling against my captors, until someone gave me a crack across the head and I slipped into unconsciousness.

  I awoke in the Little Ease, a smelly, rat-filled dungeon, watered by the sewers of the Fleet river and the slops of the prison bearing the same name.

  I must have been half-mad. I whimpered like a child, crouching in the cold, slimy darkness, until the grille above was pulled back and a bailiff with a face like a gargoyle's lashed me with a whip, before lowering a stoup of brackish water and a fly-infested dish of rancid meat. At last I calmed in the face of the sheer horror of the tragedy. Agnes was gone. The Ralembergs were dead and, judging from the dark blood stains on the front of my doublet, I was cast as the murderer. Those men in the Golden Turk had made me drunk deliberately. They had drugged my wine before moving me to that horror-filled garden.

  I was frightened. I crouched, shivering with cold, until I was dragged up and thrown into a huge cage on a gaudily painted cart and driven down through the Shambles and Westchepe to the magistrates at the Guildhall. There the bailiffs pushed and shoved me through a porticoed entrance, down a long, dark, musty passageway into the main well of the court, fastening me to the bar; beyond it sat the three magistrates before a square table ringed by clerks. I wanted to vomit or faint. Only the terror of what had happened, and what might yet occur, kept me conscious.

  A clerk read the charges out.

  'That he did foully murder and commit the most dreadful homicides . . .' Etc, etc.

  Shallot's wits resurfaced. I felt the shadow of the noose and the true danger of my situation emerged. All my goods at the Golden Turk would be gone by now. That villain of a landlord was not the one to look a gift horse in the mouth. I had no money, I had no surety. De Macon was at sea, it would take weeks to send a petition to Wolsey, and my master was immersed in his good works at Ipswich. So who would speak for old Shallot? No one but dear Shallot himself so I pleaded not guilty and made my defence: I was Ralemberg's colleague, I had no grievance against him. I admired his family and loved his daughter. There were others, I pointed out, who might wish Ralemberg's death and I was their pathetic dupe. The chief magistrate, with the face of an old fox and the hard eyes of a weasel, heard me out. His two companions, however, sniggered as I referred to the great cardinal, affairs of state, and finally to the Luciferi.

  Oh, yes, even then I dully understood that the Luciferi were the bastards who had perpetrated such a dreadful crime. They had decided to move just in case Ralemberg told me anything. They had executed him and his family, and made sure Shallot paid the price. Where, I wondered, were my bloody protectors?

  Nevertheless, I had a glimmer of hope. The chief magistrate watched me intently as the prosecutor, a blundering serjeant-at-law, failed to prove I had any grievance against the Ralembergs and could not proffer any motive for the crime. Under questioning, the prosecutor did confess that a search of the house had revealed Ralemberg's and de Macon's indentures with me, as well as my own pathetic love letters to Mistress Agnes. His case came to hinge on one point. Had I left the Golden Turk to commit murder, or was I telling the truth about being drugged and placed in Ralemberg's garden after the dreadful crimes had been committed? The chief magistrate kept referring to this point and my opponent could not answer it. Yet I, too, had no proof of my innocence.

  I was removed to the dungeon beneath the Guildhall whilst pursuivants were sent to the Golden Turk to investigate. Searches were also ordered throughout the port of London about de Macon's ship.

  I was hustled away to a cold, stone-flagged cell beneath the Guildhall which I shared with two of the biggest rats I have ever clapped eyes on. Long, black, fat-bellied and red-eyed, the bastards watched me hungrily as if I was their next meal. I screamed and rattled my chains; they turned sluggishly away as if to say that one way or another they would eventually dine on my flesh. Later in the afternoon the sheriff's men came back and dragged me up before the justices. Weasel Eyes looked as if he hadn't moved but the other two hypocrites must have dined well for they were slouched, half-asleep, in their high-backed chairs. The court was quiet except for the scratching of the clerks' quills as they sat around their green baize-topped table.

  'Master Shallot.' The chief justice's eyes seemed to smile. 'We have made enquiries at the Golden Turk.' The smile on his long face faded. 'The landlord cannot remember seeing you the night you were carousing there.'

  'The lying bastard!' I screamed.

  One of the escorts slapped me across the mouth.

  'Master Shallot,' the justice intoned, 'moderate your language!'

  'Or else what?' I yelled. 'You'll hang me? You are going to bloody well hang me anyway, for murders I never committed!'

  I received a savage jab between the ribs. 'What about de Macon's ship?' I moaned.

  'More bad news I am afraid, Master Shallot. De Macon will never confirm y
our story. His ship was seized and sunk by French privateers.'

  Well, that was it. Shallot was going to hang. The magistrate put on a black cap, a three-cornered piece of silk. The clerk of the court, his sanctimonious face relishing the sonorous words of condemnation, stood behind him.

  'Roger Shallot,' the magistrate thundered, 'we find you guilty of these terrible murders and so you must pay the full penalty of the law. You are to be taken whence you came and, at a time appointed by this court, hanged by the neck till dead!'

  I thought of everything; praying, begging, laughing, entreating, trying to escape, all the things old Shallot tries to do when he's in a tight corner.

  'Wait!' a girl's voice shouted from the back of the court. I turned and saw my saviour, the wench with black curly hair from the tavern. Beside her, the half-witted ostler she was dragging by the hand struggled with the guards.

  'What is the matter?' the magistrate roared.

  'Proof!' I yelled. 'Sir, you must hear her!'

  I give the old bastard his due, he was a fair man. I think he knew there was something wrong. Anyway, he ordered the girl forward. She took the oath and swore she had seen me drunk. The ostler, whose accent was almost unintelligible, muttered that on the night the murders had been committed, I had been hustled dead drunk out of the tavern and into the hands of strangers waiting in the yard. The magistrate, staring at the ceiling, asked why the landlord had not remembered this. The girl shrugged and mumbled about him being too busy. Who cared? I was free! Penniless, beaten, starving, wretched, but I was free! The guards threw me out. The wench was waiting for me in the street. She pressed up against me.

  'I came back, Master Shallot. You are a rogue but you'd never kill anyone!'

  'Did you see anybody?' I asked.

  She smiled and shook her head. 'I was busy upstairs with one of my customers.'

  'You committed perjury on my behalf?'

  'Yes.'

  'Why?'

  'You make me laugh.'