Paul Doherty: The poisoned chalice

'Strange,' I mused.

'What is?'

'Well, Monsieur, before I met you in St Paul's, I found one of your handbills in my chamber at the Golden Turk. Would the Luciferi have put it there?'

'Yes, that is strange,' Ralemberg murmured. 'And you say that some others protected you?'

I nodded. He smiled thinly.

'You must have powerful protectors, Master Shallot.' 'What do you mean?'

'Well, the Luciferi threatened you but they were apparently warned off by someone more powerful.'

I went cold. I had this dreadful feeling that my journey to London and my meeting with this Frenchman had all been carefully managed by Cardinal Wolsey and his blackguard, Doctor Agrippa. Was that why Benjamin had let me go? Was that the reason I found the handbill in my chamber? I thought back. Everything had gone so smoothly. Here was I writing to Benjamin, boasting about being a merchant prince, and it had all been contrived. Now, I'd mentioned Benjamin to the Ralembergs but told them nothing about his near kinsman, the great cardinal.

'Monsieur,' I snapped, 'were you told about me before we met?'

Ralemberg shook his head. 'No,' he answered. 'All I do know is that others who approached me were warned off. At first, I thought it was just the Luciferi but, on one occasion, I am sure it was due to intervention from the English court.'

'Why?' I asked.

'Why what?'

'Why is the English court interested in you?'

Ralemberg smiled and gently removed the crumbs from the table with the tips of his fingers. His companions sat frozen like statues, watching me intently. I am sure de Macon had his hand on his dagger hilt and I realised for all they knew I could be a member of the Luciferi. That's why de Macon was present, in case their gamble went wrong.

'I accepted you, Roger,' Ralemberg said, 'because I liked you. I also suspected that you had powerful patrons, someone high in your king's court.' He licked his lips. 'I was given sanctuary in England in return for information about the Luciferi.' He shrugged. 'You know, the usual details: names, places, agents, ciphers and letters. I told them all I knew except the one thing the great cardinal wanted.' 'Which is?'

'The Luciferi have a spy, a very high-ranking spy, at the English court who provides the French with information about Henry's plans against France, even before such plans are implemented. Cardinal Wolsey thought I knew his name.'

'And do you?'

'No, only that the Luciferi call him Raphael, but Wolsey already knew that.' 'You say "him"?'

'Yes.' Ralemberg smiled bleakly. 'Yes, you're right, Roger, it could be a woman. All I know is the name Raphael.'

'But Wolsey,' I persisted, 'and the Luciferi, think you know the identity of Raphael?' He nodded.

'So why don't the Luciferi just kill you?'

'My dear Roger, in London there are spies in the service of the Papacy, the Doge of Venice, the Emperor of the Romans, Ferdinand of Aragon… and the same is true of every capital in Europe. They are like parasites. They are tolerated here because France tolerates English agents in Paris, but there are certain limitations on their actions – blatant assassination is one of them. Moreover, as soon as the English think I know the name of their traitor, I will be kept safe.'

I leaned back in my chair and studied Agnes's white face. I smiled to hide my own unease. Were Wolsey and Doctor Agrippa somehow managing me? I wondered. Did they think I would loosen Ralemberg's tongue or stir his memory?

'So why do you tell me all this now?' I accused.

'This afternoon,' de Macon spoke up, 'the Luciferi made their presence felt.'

Ralemberg pulled a small package from inside his doublet. He unrolled the piece of linen. In the centre lay a small, pure white beeswax candle stamped with the fleur de lys of France. I picked it up and studied it curiously. It was identical to the one thrust into my hand in the alleyway. It looked so simple, so pure, yet it had held terrors for the Ralembergs and would be the beginning of fresh horrors for me.

'You should be careful,' de Macon murmured.

Of course, Shallot made light of it. I joked and teased them all until some of the heaviness lifted. I didn't give a damn about the Luciferi. Benjamin's uncle would protect us! I was more concerned with persuading Agnes to go for a walk in the tree-lined garden, and foolishly dismissed the Ralembergs' unease.

The next day de Macon sailed. I wrote a short letter to Benjamin, proclaiming myself a merchant but asking if his uncle had written to him recently. I made the letter sound as if all was well, and I suppose it was.

(I must pause. I can hear the little chaplain sniggering at me, the loathsome turd! He murmurs that my success is a fable like that of Dick Whittington who became Lord Mayor of London fifty years previously. Why should the little sod laugh? Can't old Shallot have a run of luck? Oh, no, the little bastard's more interested in seeing his patron, his generous master, hunted, beaten and starving in some rotting gaol or facing terrors which would reduce many a man to an inmate of Bedlam. Well, the little sod needn't worry, he can have his fill of all that before this murderous tale is finished.)

Four days after the Ralembergs told me about the Luciferi, I was in the Golden Turk carousing by myself. My partner had told me there were private matters he wished to attend to. I shrugged and left him alone. Now, isn't it strange how terrors begin? A band of gamesters joined me, with a cupful of dice and purses jingling merrily. Sturdy rogues intent on fleecing me, as I was them. The wine flowed freely, my pile of silver grew. The blood in my veins ran high and my usually sharp wits dulled. Young men who read this, take Shallot's advice! First, never drink and gamble; secondly, never drink and gamble with strangers; thirdly, if you do fall into temptation, as I sometimes did, make sure you know where the wine comes from. Anyway, I became as drunk as a vicar. The noise grew, flashes of fire burst before my eyes. I danced, I sang. I threw my largesse round the emptying tap room. I was full of joy at the prospect of meeting Agnes the next day. At last I fell back on to my stool and into the blackness of a drunken stupor. But, oh, what a wakening! I felt as if I was at the end of a long tunnel where someone was kicking my legs. I opened my eyes, groaned at the sunlight and peered around.

'The bastard's awake.'

A grizzled, bearded face pushed itself into mine. I looked away. I was in a garden, my clothes wet with dew. My head thumped with pain, my mouth tasted foul and stale. I was ringed by men, some in armour, and recognised the blue and mustard livery of the City of London. I struggled to rise but my arms were pinioned. I was dragged to my feet. My wrists were tied behind my back, an iron brace fixed around my neck and the long chain which hung from it secured round my ankles.

'For sweet pity's sake!' I murmured.

The soldier whose ugly face I had glimpsed on wakening punched me in the mouth. I turned and retched. I peered round once again. I was in the Ralembergs' garden where something black and white was floating in the small carp pond. I stared closer. It was the corpse of Agnes's dog. Thick blood from its slashed throat appeared to buoy it up. Over in the bower where Ralemberg and his wife used to sit were four corpses, each covered by a dirty, canvas sheet. I glimpsed the feet peeping out from beneath.

'Sweet mercy!' I cried. 'What's happened?'

The soldier seized me by the hair and pushed me across the garden. On his command the sheets were dragged back. How can I describe it? Ralemberg and his wife sprawled there, their throats gashed from ear to ear. The blood had splashed out, drenching their clothes. Agnes was different. Her neck was broken, carefully and expertly. She lay there as if asleep, those beautiful eyes half-open. Beside her the pathetic corpse of the servant, the garotte cord still round his scrawny neck. I howled like a dog, struggling against my captors, until someone gave me a crack across the head and I slipped into unconsciousness.