The poisoned chalice

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.