'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 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 was laughing at me but I didn't care.
Ralemberg talked and I listened. As far as I was concerned he could have my every piece of silver if he just allowed me to gaze at his daughter. Good Lord, I feel tears pricking my eyes now. Old Shallot, who would be under a woman's skirts, given half a chance, sat tongue-tied before this chit of a young girl. Do you know, I was frightened of her – or was I shy? (My chaplain is smirking. He had better be careful! Agnes was one of the great loves of my life. Indeed, the first and only one. Perhaps I loved those who came after because they were faint imitations of her.) Ah well, Ralemberg chattered gaily, then took me on a tour of the house. I walked like some sleepwalker as he showed me empty rooms and a steep, stone-vaulted cellar.
Afterwards, when I would have preferred to stay and stare at Agnes, he took me down to King's Wharf near the Vintry and into a small ale house which stank of carp and salt. He introduced me to burly, red-faced Bertrand de Macon, the master of a fat-bellied cog and prospective third partner in our business venture. We sat and drank, discussing sea routes, harbour charges, the hiring of a crew, the wine markets and the stowing of cargo. To be sure, I was rather bemused but the honesty of both men was apparent. De Macon was a born sailor who had braved the storms of Biscay. He agreed to do the first voyage there and back before receiving payment, as long as Ralemberg agreed to underwrite the voyage, using his house as collateral. I would buy the parchment and arrange its transport down to the wharves and we concluded that, if we sold the wine brought back on the first voyage, we would make a profit.
We all shook hands and drank to seal our agreement before returning to St Paul's and the desks of the scriveners where a tripartite indenture was drawn up. We agreed on two voyages from the Thames to Nantes and then we would review the situation. The duties of each of us were carefully delineated. However, before I signed, Ralemberg took me outside. I thought he wished to impart further information but, with the speed of a striking cat, he suddenly pulled his dagger, nicking my neck with its point.
'Master Shallot,' he whispered. 'My daughter Agnes – your intentions must be honourable.'
Do you know, I wasn't one bit afraid? It was one of the few times in my life when I actually spoke the truth. I held up my right hand.
'Monsieur,' I declared, 'you have my word as your business partner that my intentions towards your daughter are perfectly honourable.'
Ralemberg smiled, sheathed his dagger and clapped me on the shoulder. We went back inside and signed the indentures, the scrivener cutting the parchment into three and keeping a duplicate copy. Letters were then drawn up to be enrolled at the Court of Chancery so we would have the necessary licence to trade. Well, what more can I say? I skipped back to the tavern as merry as a schoolboy intent on his holiday.
Now, the day had grown dark but I was a burly rogue, carrying sword and dagger, yet my assailants just seemed to step out of the shadows. They didn't attack me: my arms were pinioned and I was turned round, my
