The poisoned chalice

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