The poisoned chalice

dispossessed in the dirty alleyways and streets of Whitechapel, Alsatia, and even across London Bridge amongst the stews of Southwark. I went back to Ralemberg's house but it was all sealed up like a tomb so I left it alone.
    But don't get me wrong. I mourned, I really did, and still do. If you go down to my secret chamber and look in one of the coffers you will find a crushed flower, a faded rose, more black than yellow now, but if I smell it and close my eyes (like I did last night), then I am back again in Ralemberg's garden and my blood runs free and the air is filled with the sweet fragrance of flowers. I wait for Agnes and, if I really pretend, she will come and stand with me. Oh, then I am young again and, for one of the few occasions in my life, deeply in love. I open my eyes and think of my riches. Before God, I'd give them all up just to see her again, just to touch her! Good Christ, will no one cry for poor Shallot?
    Oh, I did swear vengeance but, believe me, revenge is a dish best served cold and somehow, deep in my innards, I knew that one day I would settle with the Luciferi. For the moment, however, old Shallot had to survive. I could have returned to Ipswich but I didn't want to go back like a beggar. On my third day of freedom I managed to steal some coins and sent a note to my master in Ipswich. I had a clerk in St Paul's write it out, then stood by Aldgate and bribed a royal messenger, carrying the white wand and wearing the royal gold-and-blue surcoat, who was travelling to King's Lynn, to leave the message with Master Daunbey. I suppose I should have just gone and begged for help but Shallot has his pride. God knows where, but I've got it. A day later I had a stroke of good fortune. I managed to steal some clothes from a butcher fastened in the stocks. Then misfortune once again struck.
    I was near St Anthony's Hospital, between Bishopsgate and Bread Street, intent on lifting a purse, when my arm was suddenly seized: it was the goldsmith, Waller, demanding his money. Now, I was dirty and unshaven but he recognised me. Once again I landed back in prison, the debtor's hold in the Fleet; a dirty, ramshackle place with narrow corridors, windows as thin as a miser's lips, stinking with the refuse of the city. I was still there the morning my master came and rescued me.
    The first I knew about it was a massive gaoler dragging me from the Common side up to the turnkey's lodge. Master Benjamin was waiting, sitting on a stool. He took one look at me, smiled and slipped some coins to the turnkey for food and wine. I sat there for an hour stuffing my stomach and telling him exactly what had happened. Benjamin listened – and that's what I liked about my master, he never judged, he never condemned.
    'I received your letter,' he said. 'I came up to visit Johanna in Syon and made enquiries. All our gold?' 'Gone, master.'
    Benjamin smiled. 'Never mind. I have horses ready. Uncle wishes to see us at Hampton Court.'
    Then I did get frightened. Whenever 'Uncle', the great Lord Wolsey, intervened in our affairs, it always meant trouble. I wasn't frightened of Wolsey. He was just a butcher's son from Ipswich who had risen to be Lord Chancellor and leading churchman of England. Indeed, I always had a sneaking admiration for him and I think he liked me for, as you know, it takes one rogue to recognise another. In time I became Wolsey's friend, the only man to stand by him when he fell from power and lay in bed gasping out his life and cursing the king who had turned against him. Nor was I frightened of Wolsey's familiar, Doctor Agrippa, the black magician with his cherubic face and that strange perfumed smell which always accompanied him.
    No, what really frightened old Shallot and turned my innards to water was the thought of the beast Wolsey served, Henry VIII by the grace of God, King of England, Ireland and France. A fat, bombastic, pig-eyed, treacherous son of a turd who destroyed the best of men because he wanted to get between Anne Boleyn's legs and, when he did, couldn't do much about it. The Great Slayer really frightened me. Some men kill because they have to but Henry genuinely thought he was God, with the power of life and death.
    Let me give you an example. When he destroyed the monasteries and the north of the country rose in rebellion under Robert Aske (I'll tell you about that later, a real killing time!), the rebel leader sent envoys to Henry to treat over their grievances. Henry despatched his royal