The poisoned chalice

decorations, Member of the Privy Council (believe me, that's well named), Member of Parliament (I'll tell you a funny story about that soon). Oh, yes, Sir Roger Shallot, now well past his ninetieth year, the darling and most loyal subject of the great Elizabeth, daughter of Anne Boleyn (she had the most beautiful tits) and, allegedly, the Great Killer himself, Henry VIII – the fat syphilitic bastard! I say 'allegedly' because I know different. Oh, I'll tell you the truth some day but that's another story.
    Anyway, back to my chaplain. I grip my cane tightly and watch his smile disappear. Old Shallot is not a liar! True, sometimes my memory fails me, I get things slightly mixed up, but I am not a liar. Well, even if I am, at least I am not a hypocrite like him. Yes, he's a hypocrite and I can prove it. Two weeks ago in church the snivelling little bastard got up in the pulpit and told us not to be frightened of death. I sat in my pew and heard him prate on for at least an hour and a half. Now, usually I don't mind. I always take a bottle of claret and a meat pie to help me through the service and, when it's finished, I gaze around to catch the eye of some pretty maid. When I do, I wink and smile at her. She, of course, becomes agitated and it's so lovely to watch full ripe bosoms rise and fall!
    On that particular Sunday my chaplain wouldn't shut up and I was getting hungry. On and on he droned about how we shouldn't fear death but welcome the joys of heaven, so I picked up my two horse pistols and gave the sod both barrels. You can still see the holes on either side of the pulpit. Well, I laughed myself silly. The chaplain went white as snow and fainted straight out of the pulpit. I didn't intend to kill him. I just wanted to see if he practised what he preached. Instead I concluded he was about as frightened of death as I am so why, in the good Lord's name, did he get up and bore us stiff telling us different?
    He didn't know I always carry pistols under my cloak, and he may well ask why. For the same reason I dictate my memoirs in the centre of a maze. You see, old Shallot has many enemies and memories die hard. The secret order of the Templars still has a price on my life. The Luciferi of France (I'll come to those bastards later) would like to see my head on a pole. The Council of Ten in Venice have sent three assassins against me just because I borrowed some of their gold and forgot to repay it. The silly idiots came nowhere near me. The great Irish wolf hounds who roam my estate tore them to pieces. Marvellous animals! They lounge round my chair now, staring at the chaplain and licking their lips.
    Of course, other assassins might come. Do you know, I once played a game of human chess against the Ottoman Emperor, Suleiman the Magnificent? Instead of pieces we played with human beings on a great white and black piazza. When we lost a 'piece', the 'gardeners', the Ottoman's mute executioners, immediately strangled the poor victim. Now I won that game, losing just two 'pieces', but only after I left with the comeliest 'piece' of all, a wench from the imperial harem, did Suleiman discover that I had cheated and publicly marked me down for death. Perhaps his 'gardeners' will come but I am not frightened. I have my maze, I have my secret chamber, my own silent guards, my wolf hounds and my beloved pistols. Moreover, I have seen it all. The knife, the sword, the rope, the garrotte – they don't chill my heart.
    Poison, however, is a different matter. That's why I make my chaplain taste what I eat and drink. Everything, that is, except my best claret. I mean, the Bible does say we shouldn't throw our pearls before swine! Poison… That takes me back to my nightmare. Now I have met poisoners, dark, subtle souls who can strike at any time and in a million ways. You name a poisoner and I'll tell you all about him or her. By the way, have you noticed that? How the best poisoners are women? I mean, look at Agrippina, wife to the Emperor Claudius. If you have read your books you will discover that the Romans used to have tasters too and loved food so much they'd make themselves sick after each course by sticking a feather down their throats. Do you know what Agrippina did? She didn't poison the food. No, cunning bitch, she poisoned the feather and got rid of her husband.
    She reminds me of Catherine de Medici, Queen of France, 'Madame Serpent' as I used to call her. I never accepted anything from Catherine, for what she