The poisoned chalice

Brittany and, for the homeward journey, his ship would bring wine to the London market.
    'I couldn't sell it myself,' he declared. 'And nor could you. We are not members of the Vintners' Guild. But we could sell it to the wine merchants themselves and still make a handsome profit.'
    I leaned back against the high, wooden bench, assessing Ralemberg as a true businessman who knew the workings of the London market. In turn he came quickly to the point: his venture needed capital and what monies he had were tied up in his house. He chattered about bills of sale, the purchase of canvas and parchment, the cost of carters and the money needed for ship and crew. 'What about warehouses?' I asked.
    'I have a house off Bread Street,' he replied, 'with vacant rooms and a dry, stone-vaulted cellar. All I need,' he repeated, 'is the money to move this business.'
    So it was his turn to ask questions and, of course, I only told him what I wanted to. No! Not lies, the truth – albeit cut and tailored to suit my own purposes. Ralemberg studied me attentively throughout and I glimpsed the disbelief in his eyes. A true rogue recognises an honest man so, I suppose, a truly honest man can recognise a rogue. My grandiose descriptions faltered so I undid my money belt and emptied one of the pouches on the table.
    'That's my surety,' I said. 'You can take it as a pledge of my good faith.'
    (This is one of my favourite roles, putting my money where others put hot air and spit.) Ralemberg pushed the coins back at me. 'I want to be honest!' I burst out.
    'Don't we all, Master Shallot? If I took your silver, I would only be a thief. But, come, let me show you the warehouse you asked about.'
    We rose and he took me a short distance to Bread Street. His house was a three-storeyed affair. The horn windows were dusty and holed, the paintwork on the beams cracked and the front door swung crookedly on its hinges. Ralemberg just shrugged and grinned apologetically. Inside, however, it smelt sweet and clean. (The French are always more precise in such matters than the English.) We went down a passageway to a small panelled hall. I remember it being dark-beamed with windows high in the wall and wax candles already lit. Rugs covered the floor and a lap dog played before a small log fire. On one side of the fireplace a grey-haired woman was absorbed in some needlework whilst on the other side, with her back to us, a young girl crouched over a book, loudly reciting a French poem in a voice shot through with gaiety and laughter.
    An old servant, bald as a badger, yellow-faced and wizened, bustled towards us with all the speed of a snail; he mumbled apologies in French but Ralemberg just tapped him gently on the shoulder and told him not to worry. Of course, our entrance disturbed the domestic tableau around the fireplace. Both women rose with cries of joy. Madame Ralemberg was truly French, dark olive features, expressive eyes and neatly coiffed hair. She looked merry, though her eyes were guarded. She studied me suspiciously and this strengthened my belief that Ralemberg had his own secrets. The other woman, Ralemberg's daughter… well, how can you describe a poem in the flesh? She must have been sixteen or seventeen summers old, tall and slender, and her eyes were as blue as a clear summer sky. She had the face of an angel, high cheek bones and perfectly formed nose and mouth. If she had been at court the young dandies would have written odes and sonnets to her eyebrows, her finger nails and her sweet rose mouth. Good Lord, she was beautiful!
    She was dressed simply enough in a brown gown with a lacy ruff round the neck but she would have outshone any queen. Her voice was low and musical and her command of English only enhanced by a slight French accent. She said something to me, a simple introduction, but all I could do was stare open-mouthed at her. Suddenly she giggled and I realised I was still holding her fingers. You see, it was those eyes, so blue in a face so dark, one of God's most beautiful mixtures. I have met such women since, young girls from the west of Ireland, but Agnes Ralemberg was the queen.
    Believe me, if the eyes are the windows of the soul, then Agnes's soul was as beautiful as she looked. She was totally guileless, honest, with a mordant sense of humour and sardonic wit. She knew me to be a rogue as soon as she clapped eyes on me and, whilst her father ushered me to a seat, she watched girlishly out of the corner of her eye. She