The Poisoned Chalice Read Online Free Page A

ready, to draw up wills, indentures, bills of sale, a letter to a friend or a billet doux to a lover. At the other end lawyers, in ermine-edged cloaks, touted for business, serjeants-at-law consulted clients, and outside in the porch, booksellers and pamphleteers did a roaring trade.
    Now I avoided all of these. I was looking for a business venture worthy of my silver, some trade across the Narrow Seas or perhaps commerce with the Baltic. You see, in my youth trade was close. The Cabots had sailed for Newfoundland but that was as far as it went. The seas down the west coast of Africa and the routes to the Hispanic colonies across the Atlantic were not yet open for English ships. We had no sea dogs, no Frobishers or Grenvilles who would fight their way past Spanish galleons. And, of course, there was no Drake. (I knew Sir Francis. Have I told you the story? I was playing bowls with him when the Great Armada was spotted off Lizard Point and the beacons along the south coast flared into life. I am sure you must have heard the tale? When the messenger arrived to inform Drake of the possible invasion, the old sea dog announced he would finish his game of bowls, then he would finish off the Spanish. The red-bearded pirate was telling a lie! I had wagered a purse that I would beat him at bowls and Drake never could resist gold. Moreover, it was I who wet my finger to test the wind and pointed out that, even if he wanted to leave the game, it would be no use. The wind had to change before his fighting ships could sail against the Spanish. My chaplain says I am a liar. What the bloody hell does he know? I drank with all our great sailors. Of course, the greatest is Raleigh. He is still at sea with the silver I gave him to discover fresh treasure. He says he can find his way up the Orinoco and discover the Seven Cities of Gold where the streets are paved with precious metals, and dusky, full-bosomed maidens scatter gems and pennies. I only hope the old sea dog is telling the truth!)
    Lackaday, I digress! In Fat Harry's time business was not so adventurous. Merchants came to St Paul's and walked up and down, thumbs pushed into their belts, looking for gold and bullion to invest in their ventures: wool to Flanders, wine from Gascony, wood to Italy, silks and costly fabrics from Venice and the mills of Florence. I ignored such men with their closed faces and pinched noses. Their pompous promises and grandiloquent phrases failed to convince me so I quickly took the air in the graveyard where all the wolfs-heads, villains and counterfeit men hid from the law. You see, St Paul's used to be a sanctuary, a refuge against the sheriff's men and, as long as you stayed there, you were safe. I wondered if some of my old cronies from my days with old Mother Nightbird were still lurking there. I stalked amongst the booths and ramshackle dwellings built against the wall. Lord, I have never seen such a collection of rogues, palliards and foists! Indeed, the whole canting crew. I kept one hand on my sword hilt and the other on my wallet as I mentally phrased the letter I intended to send to Cardinal Wolsey demanding the graveyard be cleared of such a collection of villains.
    At length I grew tired and went back to the joys of the tavern, both the board and the bed. The only curious thing was that I found in my room a handbill from a Frenchman trying to solicit backers to export parchment to France and import wine into England. I read it with interest, then forgot it. The next day I returned to St Paul's and, this time, was successful.
    It must have been noon, the time for the Angelus, and the bells of the cathedral clanging fit to break when I first caught sight of the fellow. He was dressed soberly in a dark brown jerkin with leggings of the same colour pushed into black soft leather boots. His grey cloak was of pure wool pushed back over his shoulders, yet it was his face which attracted me. His features reminded me of Benjamin; kindly, honest and