face pressed into the dank wall of the alleyway. Perhaps it was the wine I had drunk but I only gave a short yell before my hair was grabbed and my head jerked violently back.
'Monsieur!' a voice hissed. 'Do not struggle! There are four of us. We mean you no harm but Monsieur Ralemberg is not the man he appears. It would be best if you looked for another business partner.'
'What do you mean?' I stuttered, my usual cowardice now taking hold. 'Ralemberg… who is he?'
'Monsieur,' the voice repeated slowly, 'you should not be worried about Monsieur Ralemberg but rather us.'
One of my hands was seized and, strange upon strange, a small wax candle thrust into my palm.
'Next time you meet Monsieur Ralemberg, just tell him his old friends the Luciferi are with him!'
Suddenly a voice bellowed from the top of the alleyway.
'You, sirs! What are you doing?'
My face was banged against the wall and my assailants disappeared. I crouched, holding my bruised temple and cursing the arrow of pain which coursed through my face. My rescuers were three bully boys, swords and daggers stuck through their waists. You know the type, with their tight hose, protruding codpieces, puffed doublets and short cloaks. They didn't chase my assailants but helped me to my feet, solicitously enquiring after my health. It was dark, I couldn't make out their features, but I was terrified that I had jumped from the pot into the flames. Even then I should have known something was wrong. Why should three bully boys help a stranger in a darkened alleyway off Cheapside? However, they caused me no ill and I staggered back to the Golden Turk and the tender care of the slattern, a bowl of rich broth and countless frothing tankards of ale.
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
