The Poisoned Chalice (3 page)

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.

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.