The poisoned chalice

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 bemused 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