The Poisoned Chalice

Chapter 2

The next morning I awoke anxious over what had happened. I stared wonderingly at the small, wax candle which I had thrown on to the floor of my chamber. I forgot about my rescuers, I was more concerned by the Luciferi.

I knew enough Latin to know this name meant the Light-Bearers, Satan's name before he was thrown out of heaven. But who were these Light-Bearers? I wondered. A rival company? Personal enemies of Ralemberg? I felt my stomach lurch and my heart beat a little faster. My hands felt clammy, the usual signs of old Shallot beginning to wonder whether it is time to cut and run. My elation of the previous day began to evaporate until I remembered Agnes, the indentures I had signed, and the basic honesty of Ralemberg and de Macon. I washed, dressed, strapped on my sword belt and strutted out, quietly vowing that a group of cut-throats and alley-sneakers could not frighten this new Merchant Prince. Oh, Lord, the foolishness of youth!

I went straight to Ralemberg's house, hungry to see the ever-smiling Agnes. My poor heart soared like a bird when she agreed to accompany me and her father to a parchment-seller in Lothbury. We kept off the beaten track, away from those traders who fixed high prices, for Shallot knew where to go. This shop or that, then across London Bridge under the rotting, decapitated heads of traitors to a small parchment-seller's in Southwark. The gods smile on those they intend to destroy, and within three days the parchment we bought up was carted down to de Macon's cog and hoisted aboard. The captain was as happy as a pig in the mire.

'Better this,' he bellowed, 'than begging for trade from Westminster to the Wool Quay!'

He explained how, due to the cessation of hostilities between England and France, the hiring of vessels was now cheap and easy and, for what he had to sell, it was a buyer's market.

Two days later he sailed and I, forgetful of all dangers, was now in my seventh heaven. (One of my few virtues. When I am happy, I can't give a rat's arse about anything else!) Ralemberg was likeable. He reminded me of Benjamin with his dry wit, sardonic observations and palpable honesty. We roamed the streets together looking for possible future providers of parchment and, taking advantage of the good weather, rode north to Oxford to the parchment-sellers along Holywell and Broad Street as well as the little shops on the Turl near Exeter College.

Of course, there was always Agnes, and I lived for the nights when I joined the Ralembergs for their simple meal. The Frenchman treated me like a son; his wife was a little more distant and cool so I complimented her and brought her small gifts, wooing her as if she was the maid. As for my beloved, what shall I say? One memory will always remain. Seventy-five years later, whenever I feel the sun on my face, it springs as fresh in my mind as if it occurred yesterday. There was a small garden at the back of Ralemberg's house where the roses grew wild, their stems trailing over the small banks of herbs. The garden was cut off from its neighbour by a high red brick wall. Ralemberg would sit with his wife in a flower-covered bower sharing a loving cup whilst Agnes and I would walk among the roses. At first she was shy but then she chattered about Nantes, how she missed the dark woods and green fields of Brittany. She gave me the names of all her friends and said how proud she was of the life her father had given her. Sometimes I would hold her lightly by the finger-tips and try to steer the conversation to matters of the heart, but she would blush and her beautiful eyes look down. She would shake her head and deftly speak of other matters, though never about her father's past.

Now, I knew some French. You may remember I spent some time in Paris – not the most pleasant of times – freezing in the snow, chased by wolves and being half-hanged at Montfaucon. Hence I had a working knowledge of the language and sometimes, at table, could follow the conversation, though when the Ralembergs lapsed into patois this became impossible. During these conversations their manner would be grave, their faces serious. One word they kept repeating was the Latin 'Luciferi' and I remembered my assailants in the alley. Nevertheless, I still believed this was a reference to a rival company and, as my attackers never returned, the memory of their dark threats receded. Or did it? Sometimes I felt I was being followed or watched whilst seated in a tavern or moving amongst the stalls in Cheapside. I had this feeling of menace, of quiet watchfulness.

Oh, yes, I felt tempted to question the Ralembergs. Once I did ask Agnes about the Luciferi but the girl just paled and shook her head.

'You must never mention that word again,' she whispered.

I was happy enough to let the matter drop. The weeks passed, a full month in all. De Macon's ship went to Brittany and back, the voyage helped by fair winds and calm seas. The ship returned with a hold full of wines and a handsome profit. Ralemberg insisted on meeting de Macon first, saying he wished to discuss some secret matter, so I joined them later in a small tavern on the corner of Vintry and La Reole. We toasted our success, de Macon informing us that the market was a prosperous one. Ralemberg said he already had a buyer for the wine, a vintner living in Trinity. We then laid plans for the next voyage.

I had now used most of my silver and, despite our profits, had to draw heavily, even borrow some more from the goldsmith, Waller, in his musty old shop in Mercery. At first, the tight old sod wasn't going to lend me a penny. (Have you noticed that about bankers? If you have money the bastards want to lend you it; if you haven't and want to borrow, they tell you to go to hell.) Anyway, this old miser drew up an indenture and the monies were made available. We bought cartloads of parchment from Charterhouse, Oxford and even sent orders to places as far north as Norwich and Cambridge.

On the day before de Macon sailed on his second voyage, the Ralembergs invited me to a formal supper. I was delighted. My wooing of Agnes was proceeding apace. I had bought her small gifts, I had kissed her hand whilst on May Day I'd helped deck the house with green boughs and later took her to dance around a Maypole set up near Cattle Street. However, when I went to the house that night I found the Ralembergs upset. Even the jovial de Macon was pale-faced and withdrawn. Agnes looked timid and I could hear the old servant weeping in the scullery. My hosts shuffled their feet and the meal was unusually silent but, when darkness had fallen and the candles on the table threw huge, black shadows against the wall, Ralemberg filled my glass to the brim, went back to his own chair and nodded at his wife.

'Master Shallot,' he began, 'we have our secrets and you have yours.' He waved a hand. 'I shall tell you why we left France.'

He stared down at the white damask tablecloth; I sipped my wine and studied the faces of the others. If anything, their fear had increased.

'What's the matter?' I asked testily.

'I am the matter,' Ralemberg answered. 'I was born in Brittany. That was an independent province until Duke Francis died, leaving his daughter Anne as his only heir. She was seized, married off to Charles VIII of France, and Brittany was absorbed into a greater France.' Ralemberg smiled wanly. 'Now Brittany had been given assurances by the present King of England's father that the Tudors would fight to protect Brittany's independence.' He shrugged. 'It just goes to show, princes are liars.'

(Well, that came as no surprise to me. Old Henry VII, father to the Great Killer, was a born miser and inveterate liar who wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit him on the nose. Oh, by the way, Charles VIII of France was no better. He was a pygmy, an ugly little bastard, forever jumping on the ladies of the court as if he was a dog on heat. He fancied himself as a new Alexander and said he wanted to learn more about the Renaissance in the neighbouring country, so he invaded Italy. Charles sacked city after city. He also found syphilis, the first time that disease appeared in Europe. His soldiers caught it outside Naples and, when their balls began to drop off, he retreated. You must have heard how Charles died? Supposedly, he wandered into a darkened room and banged his head on a cupboard. I know different. He was murdered. I have met the assassin who was on top of the cupboard!)

'Brittany became part of France,' Ralemberg continued. 'I didn't care either way. I went to university at the Sorbonne in Paris, entered the royal service, and joined the French crown's legion of secret agents called the Luciferi, the Light-Bearers. These men move in the shadows. They do not act in the full light of day but deal in subtle trickery, clever fetches, secret assassinations, and every filthy trick of the devil. I became a high-ranking officer under the chief archangel, Vauban.'

He chewed his lip. 'The archangel is the title given to the leader of the Luciferi. He is appointed personally by the French king. I admit I was party to their tricks for a while but in Brittany the Luciferi began to remove, through assassination or spurious trials, any who opposed the French crown. One of these was my own brother who led the resistance in the countryside around Nantes.' He looked down at his splayed fingers. 'I suppose,' he murmured, 'that brought me to my senses. I began to see the Luciferi as evil. I fled from them and joined the rebels in Brittany.' He looked at the sea captain. 'De Macon was also one of us. When the resistance broke, I fled with what possessions I had.'

Ralemberg looked sharply at me. 'What's the matter, Roger? I thought you'd say this is England, the Luciferi have no power here?'

'I have met the Luciferi,' I replied, and heard Madame Ralemberg moan as I briefly described my assailants in the alleyway and the appearance of my mysterious protectors.

'Why didn't you tell us?' Ralemberg snapped.

'I thought they were another company, personal enemies. Threats,' I continued bravely, 'do not deter me. But you are right, Monsieur, this is England and the Luciferi have no real power.'

'The Luciferi are everywhere,' de Macon replied. 'Why do you think Monsieur Ralemberg needed your silver and gold? You were not the only one attracted by his business ventures. The Luciferi frightened the rest off.'

'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.

I awoke in the Little Ease, a smelly, rat-filled dungeon, watered by the sewers of the Fleet river and the slops of the prison bearing the same name.

I must have been half-mad. I whimpered like a child, crouching in the cold, slimy darkness, until the grille above was pulled back and a bailiff with a face like a gargoyle's lashed me with a whip, before lowering a stoup of brackish water and a fly-infested dish of rancid meat. At last I calmed in the face of the sheer horror of the tragedy. Agnes was gone. The Ralembergs were dead and, judging from the dark blood stains on the front of my doublet, I was cast as the murderer. Those men in the Golden Turk had made me drunk deliberately. They had drugged my wine before moving me to that horror-filled garden.

I was frightened. I crouched, shivering with cold, until I was dragged up and thrown into a huge cage on a gaudily painted cart and driven down through the Shambles and Westchepe to the magistrates at the Guildhall. There the bailiffs pushed and shoved me through a porticoed entrance, down a long, dark, musty passageway into the main well of the court, fastening me to the bar; beyond it sat the three magistrates before a square table ringed by clerks. I wanted to vomit or faint. Only the terror of what had happened, and what might yet occur, kept me conscious.

A clerk read the charges out.

'That he did foully murder and commit the most dreadful homicides

…' Etc, etc.

Shallot's wits resurfaced. I felt the shadow of the noose and the true danger of my situation emerged. All my goods at the Golden Turk would be gone by now. That villain of a landlord was not the one to look a gift horse in the mouth. I had no money, I had no surety. De Macon was at sea, it would take weeks to send a petition to Wolsey, and my master was immersed in his good works at Ipswich. So who would speak for old Shallot? No one but dear Shallot himself so I pleaded not guilty and made my defence: I was Ralemberg's colleague, I had no grievance against him. I admired his family and loved his daughter. There were others, I pointed out, who might wish Ralemberg's death and I was their pathetic dupe. The chief magistrate, with the face of an old fox and the hard eyes of a weasel, heard me out. His two companions, however, sniggered as I referred to the great cardinal, affairs of state, and finally to the Luciferi.

Oh, yes, even then I dully understood that the Luciferi were the bastards who had perpetrated such a dreadful crime. They had decided to move just in case Ralemberg told me anything. They had executed him and his family, and made sure Shallot paid the price. Where, I wondered, were my bloody protectors?

Nevertheless, I had a glimmer of hope. The chief magistrate watched me intently as the prosecutor, a blundering serjeant-at-law, failed to prove I had any grievance against the Ralembergs and could not proffer any motive for the crime. Under questioning, the prosecutor did confess that a search of the house had revealed Ralemberg's and de Macon's indentures with me, as well as my own pathetic love letters to Mistress Agnes. His case came to hinge on one point. Had I left the Golden Turk to commit murder, or was I telling the truth about being drugged and placed in Ralemberg's garden after the dreadful crimes had been committed? The chief magistrate kept referring to this point and my opponent could not answer it. Yet I, too, had no proof of my innocence.

I was removed to the dungeon beneath the Guildhall whilst pursuivants were sent to the Golden Turk to investigate. Searches were also ordered throughout the port of London about de Macon's ship.

I was hustled away to a cold, stone-flagged cell beneath the Guildhall which I shared with two of the biggest rats I have ever clapped eyes on. Long, black, fat-bellied and red-eyed, the bastards watched me hungrily as if I was their next meal. I screamed and rattled my chains; they turned sluggishly away as if to say that one way or another they would eventually dine on my flesh. Later in the afternoon the sheriff's men came back and dragged me up before the justices. Weasel Eyes looked as if he hadn't moved but the other two hypocrites must have dined well for they were slouched, half-asleep, in their high-backed chairs. The court was quiet except for the scratching of the clerks' quills as they sat around their green baize-topped table.

'Master Shallot.' The chief justice's eyes seemed to smile. 'We have made enquiries at the Golden Turk.' The smile on his long face faded. 'The landlord cannot remember seeing you the night you were carousing there.'

'The lying bastard!' I screamed.

One of the escorts slapped me across the mouth.

'Master Shallot,' the justice intoned, 'moderate your language!'

'Or else what?' I yelled. 'You'll hang me? You are going to bloody well hang me anyway, for murders I never committed!'

I received a savage jab between the ribs. 'What about de Macon's ship?' I moaned.

'More bad news I am afraid, Master Shallot. De Macon will never confirm your story. His ship was seized and sunk by French privateers.'

Well, that was it. Shallot was going to hang. The magistrate put on a black cap, a three-cornered piece of silk. The clerk of the court, his sanctimonious face relishing the sonorous words of condemnation, stood behind him.

'Roger Shallot,' the magistrate thundered, 'we find you guilty of these terrible murders and so you must pay the full penalty of the law. You are to be taken whence you came and, at a time appointed by this court, hanged by the neck till dead!'

I thought of everything; praying, begging, laughing, entreating, trying to escape, all the things old Shallot tries to do when he's in a tight corner.

'Wait!' a girl's voice shouted from the back of the court. I turned and saw my saviour, the wench with black curly hair from the tavern. Beside her, the half-witted ostler she was dragging by the hand struggled with the guards.

'What is the matter?' the magistrate roared.

'Proof!' I yelled. 'Sir, you must hear her!'

I give the old bastard his due, he was a fair man. I think he knew there was something wrong. Anyway, he ordered the girl forward. She took the oath and swore she had seen me drunk. The ostler, whose accent was almost unintelligible, muttered that on the night the murders had been committed, I had been hustled dead drunk out of the tavern and into the hands of strangers waiting in the yard. The magistrate, staring at the ceiling, asked why the landlord had not remembered this. The girl shrugged and mumbled about him being too busy. Who cared? I was free! Penniless, beaten, starving, wretched, but I was free! The guards threw me out. The wench was waiting for me in the street. She pressed up against me.

'I came back, Master Shallot. You are a rogue but you'd never kill anyone!'

'Did you see anybody?' I asked.

She smiled and shook her head. 'I was busy upstairs with one of my customers.'

'You committed perjury on my behalf?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'You make me laugh.'

'My possessions?' I asked.

'They are all gone. The landlord took them.'

‘I’ll kill the bastard!'

'No, you won't,' she whispered. 'He's dead already. He was found with his throat cut in one of the outhouses.'

'Do you know anything about it?'

'Men who spoke French have been seen near the tavern. You'd best not come back,' she added. 'Here, take this.' She slipped me a cloth containing strips of dried meat. Then she stood on tiptoe, kissed me and was gone.

I never saw her again. Months later I searched London but never found her. She was one of the kindest persons I ever met. She had the gentlest soul, and the finest pair of buttocks I have ever held. Let old Shallot tell you this: when you're in real trouble the women will help; most men are cowards. Oh, they like to show off in their peacock plumery, but it's all shadow and no substance with them.

Well, there I was in London, penniless; like the man in the gospel, I was too proud to go home so I begged and fought with the rest of the 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 herald, Rouge Croix, in return. This poor bastard made the error of bowing before the rebel leader so, when he returned to London, Henry had him drawn, quartered, disembowelled and his balls cut off. Just because the poor sod made a mistake! Now you can see why old Shallot was frightened. No, I lie, not frightened – just terrified witless.