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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