London (51 page)

For the first time in her life, Sister Mabel experienced physical desire. She knew it was the Devil who sent it. She prayed night and day. She tried to close her mind to the man under the cassock, but what could she do? She was with him every day. For three weeks, to the exclusion of almost everything else, she was aware of his physical presence: the sound of his footfall, the smell of the sweat on the cuffs of his habit; the often matted fringe of hair on his tonsured head. Then even this seemed to merge into a more general love for him that was so intense she caught her breath if he even came into the room. Now, finding herself completely powerless before this engulfing emotion, she had gone to confess.

Beneath one of the dark, soaring arches of St Paul’s, therefore, a rather surprised young priest asked her: “Has anything taken place?”

“No, Father,” she answered sadly.

“Pray to our Blessed Mother the Virgin Mary,” he told her, “and know in your heart that you will not sin.”

But here she surprised him. For, devout though she was, Mabel had the practical sense of those who treat the sick. “That’s no good,” she answered, “because I probably shall.” Which left the young priest, despite himself, somewhat curious as to what would happen next.

For three desperate days Ida tried to avoid her marriage. In her eyes, her fate was truly appalling. It was not just that Bull was heavy, coarse and a complete stranger. It would have been just as bad if she had liked him. The chief cause of her agony was purer than mere personality: Sampson Bull was of the wrong class.

It was termed disparagement, this forced marriage of heiresses and widows to men of lower rank: a magnate’s daughter to a middling baron, a baron’s to a humble knight, or even, as with Ida, a modest knight’s daughter to a rich merchant. Nothing, in her world, could be worse. It was humiliating.

She went to the Exchequer and saw the justiciar himself, but no one was interested. Had she no powerful friends?

There was one, slim chance. The squat little western fort by Ludgate known as Baynard’s Castle had long been held by the powerful feudal family of Fitzwalter, and to the Fitzwalters she could claim – just – a family connection. It was very distant, but it was all she had. So she went there.

The young knight who spoke with her was polite. The lord was busy. She explained that she was his kinswoman and that the matter was urgent. He advised her to come back in an hour. After going to St Bride’s to pray, she duly returned, to be told, apologetically: “The Lord Fitzwalter has gone out.” The next day she saw only the doorkeeper, who also advised her to return. This time she waited near the entrance, but an hour later was again told that she had just missed him. Clearly her kinsman had no need of poor relations. She had lost.

The ceremony took place in St Mary-le-Bow. It was mercifully brief. Only the family attended and Ida was glad enough to return quietly to the Bull house afterwards.

Once there she took stock of her situation. As she looked at the merchant, she felt discouraged. On his face she could see only one emotion: satisfaction. And she was right, for if in retrieving Bocton Bull had fulfilled a lifetime’s dream, in marrying Ida he had set a crown upon it. Not only had he reclaimed his Saxon estate, but he was edging into the Norman upper class that had supplanted him there. Nor was he alone. Several London merchants had already made such alliances. “And one day,” he explained to young David, “she can help us find a noble wife for you too.” In a generation, the Bulls of Bocton might become greater in the land than they had ever been. No wonder Bull looked pleased with himself.

As for Bull’s family, his mother appeared to be a kindly, pious old woman, but was obviously not in the habit of talking much. The boy, David, who stared at her so shyly, seemed a much better prospect. She could see at once that he was a brave, frank fellow who must be lonely. When she gently said she was sorry he had lost his mother and hoped he would let her try to take her place, she saw his eyes moisten, and she was touched.

The surprise was Brother Michael. How amazing that the blunt merchant should have such a relation. She looked into Michael’s kindly, intelligent eyes and liked him at once. Time had wrought a fineness in his face. She discerned his purity. Having always admired religious men and found herself attracted to them, she went up to him and begged him to come and visit her very soon, causing the monk to blush.

But she still had to sleep with the merchant, and here Sampson Bull was clever. He knew very well Ida’s feelings for him and her repugnance for the marriage, but was not discouraged. He saw it as a challenge. When, therefore, they were alone in the bedchamber and it was the hour when she must submit to him, he took his time. This first night, Ida, conscious of her new station and that the boy was in a chamber nearby, let the merchant do what he must in silence. The second night, bathed in a sweat, she bit her lip. The third, despite herself, she cried out with pleasure. Later, asleep, she was not aware that the merchant, looking down at her pale body with a certain grim amusement, murmured gently: “Now, my lady, you’ve really been disparaged.”

On the morning of 3 September 1189, King Richard I of England was crowned in Westminster Abbey. The coronation had one unusual feature. The gallant crusading king, having suddenly developed a fear that the sacred rites might somehow be polluted or endangered by witchcraft, had the day before ordered that the coronation was to take place in an atmosphere of particular purity.

“No Jews or women are to be admitted to the service.”

Brother Michael hesitated. He told himself it was because of the boy. Why had he promised to raise the matter of the crusade? He knew it was futile, and it would only make his brother furious.

Relations between the brothers had improved in recent years. If Sampson was still irreverent, he seemed to have reconciled himself to his brother’s life. A little before she died, his mother had summoned Michael and placed a considerable sum in his hands. “I want you to use it, on behalf of the family, but for religious purposes,” she had told him. “It grieves me that your brother Sampson is still a lost soul, but you of course I can trust. Keep it until you know what to do, and I’m sure God will guide you.” For some years he had remained the guardian of this money, and it gave him pleasure to think that when he was sure what to do, he would be able to make use of it. Michael had half expected his brother to protest, but when the alderman had heard, he had only laughed. When Bull’s wife had died a year ago, and Brother Michael had visited almost every day to keep his and David’s spirits up, Bull had one day given him an apologetic look and remarked: “I must say, Brother, you’ve behaved uncommonly well.” No, he really did not want to have an argument now.

But there was something else.

It was nearly twenty years since his brother’s crude challenge, yet the words still came back to him: “I don’t even believe you can keep your stupid vows.” But he had. Was it so difficult? His vow of poverty had been easy, of course; there was no wealth at St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Obedience, too, had been easy enough. And chastity? That had been harder. He had been tempted by women, especially in the beginning. But with time the practice of celibacy had become not only a habit but a comfortable one. His work had brought him joy. I believe, he had thought to himself when he passed the age of forty, that I am safe. So why, now, did he hesitate at the door of his brother’s house? Was it some instinct warning him of danger?

The coronation had taken place without interruption. Sampson Bull had attended the service in Westminster Abbey; then, while King Richard feasted with his court in Westminster Hall, the rich merchant had returned home for a more modest meal, to which he had invited his brother.

The conversation was cheerful. Though several times Brother Michael saw his nephew staring at him anxiously, he was in no hurry; and he found his gaze returning to Ida. What did she make of this marriage to his coarse brother? Could she be happy? It was hard to know what she was thinking, he decided. Only when the meal was nearly over, and he could not put it off any longer, did he finally broach the subject of the crusade. And held his breath.

To his surprise, however, Bull showed no sign of anger. Instead, he leaned back, closed his eyes for a few moments and smiled.

In truth, Bull had half expected it. The crusading fever was at its height. He knew that boys of David’s age often conceived a passion for religion that usually passed, and if the boy had a desire for adventure, so much the better. Opening his eyes again, therefore, he remarked: “So you want to go to the Holy Land.” Then, turning back to the monk, he mildly enquired: “Are you so anxious, Brother, that this boy should die?”

Brother Michael flushed. “Of course not.”

“Yet many who go to the Holy Land,” the merchant truly observed, “do not return.” The monk was silent. “But you want the boy to save his soul? Which is hard to do in London, I suppose.”

The merchant sighed. How was it, he often wondered, that men ran after ideals and ignored reality? Some who went on crusade were honest pilgrims, some were seeking adventure, some profit. Many would never even reach the Holy Land, dying first of disease or even, as with the last crusade, fighting other Christians. Nearly all would be ruined. Where, in all this, was the ideal? Lost in the journey.

It was at just this moment that young David gained an unexpected ally. The more Ida saw him, the more she liked the boy. The thought of losing him on a dangerous crusade horrified her, but as the daughter of a knight she understood him. Only the day before he had confided his secret to her, and when she had replied, “You’re rather young,” and seen him flush with shame, she had cursed herself. Now, therefore, she calmly intervened:

“I think you should let him go.” It was the first time she had crossed her husband. She wondered what would happen.

Bull did not respond at once, frowning while he considered how to deal with this new development. Finally he observed with a trace of cruelty, “You were sold against your will, madam, because of a crusade, yet you still support them?”

“It’s the principle that matters,” she proudly replied. Then, very calmly, she smiled at Brother Michael.

How beautiful she was, he thought, how noble. With her pale white face, her large brown eyes, how sublimely above this merchant’s house she was. He noticed with approval that young David was also gazing at her admiringly.

It was seeing their admiration that tempted Ida to make a foolish mistake, for now, turning to her husband with a trace of contempt, she remarked: “But since it concerns principles, you would not understand.”

Deserved or not, it was an insult, and at once she realized she had gone too far. For a moment Bull was silent. Then he began to redden.

“No,” he replied dangerously, “I wouldn’t.” She saw the veins beginning to stand out on his forehead. She noticed Brother Michael and David looking anxiously at each other. With a little tremor of fear, she realized that she was about to experience for the first time the merchant’s famous temper. Who knew what might have happened next if, at this moment, a servant had not burst into the hall, knocking over a pitcher of wine in his haste, and cried out: “Master! There’s a riot!”

Men were running through the streets. Brother Michael made his way swiftly along the West Cheap and up Ironmonger Lane, from where he could hear shouts. One of the timber and thatch houses had been set alight. He found the dead body of a man lying in the street. Then he came to them.

There were about a hundred – men, women and children. Some were ruffians, but he saw two respectable merchants he knew, also some apprentices, a tailor’s wife and a pair of young clerks. They were breaking down the door of a house. Someone had just thrown a lighted torch on to the roof, and a rough voice was crying out, “Round the back. Don’t let him get away.” When he asked one of the merchants what was happening, the man replied: “They attacked the king at Westminster. But don’t worry, Brother. We’ll get them.”

It was the Jews.

The London riot of 1189 began as a simple, stupid mistake. While Richard and his knights were feasting, the leaders of the Jewish community had, with the best intentions, arrived at Westminster Palace to make a presentation to the new king. Since women and Jews had been forbidden to attend the coronation, the men at the door mistook this for some kind of attack and started shouting. Some hot-blooded courtiers rushed out, swords drawn. They struck. Several Jews fell. The commotion spread, and within the hour men were gathering in the city.

It did not take much to start a riot. In this case, as the whole city was in a fever for the Lionheart’s crusade, the excuse was obvious.

“What’s the use of a crusade if we let these foreign infidels live off the fat of the land right here in London?” the merchant now demanded angrily. Turning around, he shouted: “It’s a crusade, lads. Kill the infidels!”

It was at exactly this moment that the Jew came out of his house. He was an elderly man with pale blue eyes, a narrow face, and a long grey beard. He wore a black cloak. As he looked at the mob before his door, he shook his head in disgust and mumbled a prayer. It would not save him.

A roar went up. The crowd surged forward.

Only then did Brother Michael realize who the old man was. It was Abraham, the Jew who had sold his brother the Bocton estate.

It did not take Brother Michael long to decide. It seemed to him there was nothing else to do. He rushed forward. The crowd, seeing he was a monk, let him through and a moment later he was standing beside the old man, his hand raised as though to restrain them.

“Well, Brother,” a voice cried, “will you kill him, or shall we?”

“No one shall kill him,” he shouted. “Go home.”

“Why not?” they cried. “Isn’t it right to kill an infidel?”

“Yes, Brother,” he heard the merchant’s voice. “Tell us why?”

And for a moment, to his own surprise, he could not remember.

Of course his humanity told him it was wrong, but that would not protect the old man now. Wasn’t all Christendom supposed to fight the unbelievers, Muslim, Jew and heretic alike? What was the proper reply? Stumped for a moment, he looked helplessly at the old man, who softly murmured: “We’re waiting, Brother.”