London (53 page)

Ida gasped. But far from protesting at this, as she thought he must, Silversleeves instead leaned forward and confidentially asked, “We all know this is a mistake, but tell me honestly, how bad is London’s reaction going to be?”

Bull considered for a few moments before delivering his verdict. When he spoke, his voice was grave. “If the king won’t play by the rules, if he turns his back on custom,” he looked Silversleeves carefully in the eye, “we won’t stand for it.”

To Ida the words seemed rather foolish. To Pentecost they were frightening. Custom was everything in England. The old common law that governed every manor and village in the kingdom might not be written down, but the Norman conquerors had wisely never attempted to touch it. Similarly, the customs of London might not be formally set out, but every king since William had respected them. This was the code the Norse and Saxon burghers of the city lived by. Within its limits, they were flexible. Break the code, and cooperation would end. Ida only dimly guessed this. Pentecost had known it from his cradle.

It was then that Bull added something that to Ida sounded even stranger, though in time the curious word he used would become as familiar to her as it would be loathsome.

“Frankly,” he remarked, “it wouldn’t surprise me if this didn’t lead to a commune.”

Silversleeves went pale.

A commune. Ida had only a vague idea of what such a thing might be, although in fact, as an institution, it was not new. In Normandy, the ancient city of Rouen had possessed a commune for half a century, and other European cities had versions of it. In the past, the barons of London had been known to raise the idea from time to time, though never with much success.

For the commune was every burgher’s dream. It meant, in effect, that the city became a self-governing unit with almost no interference from the monarch. A kingdom within the kingdom, electing its own governor, who was usually called by the French term of mayor. But there was another feature of the Continental commune of which Silversleeves was well aware.

There were three main ways in which the king obtained his income. The first was the yearly farm from the counties; the other two were occasional taxes, levied for special purposes as the king and his council thought best, one of which was the aid, in theory a gift given to the king by all his feudal barons, the other the tallage, a flat, per capita tax paid by all the king’s freemen, especially those in towns.

In feudal Europe a commune was treated as though it were a single, feudal baron. The farm was paid to the king by the mayor, who raised it as he thought fit; the aid was paid similarly. But since the commune was a single, feudal baron, when it came to the tallage, it was as though all the thousands of freemen within the city’s walls had vanished. They were no longer the king’s men; they belonged to a baron called London. No tallage was payable. The commune was, in reality, a form of tax haven not for the rich but for ordinary citizens. No wonder, then, that the Exchequer clerk regarded it with horror.

“Would you support a commune?” he asked.

“I would,” Bull gruffly replied.

Ida had listened to this disloyal conversation with mounting horror. Who did these arrogant merchants think they were? Perhaps if her visit to Bocton had not sharply reminded her of her former state, she might have kept silent. If she had been the widow of a magnate, familiar with the power of the great European cities, she would have known better. But she was only the widow of a provincial knight; nor was she clever. So, with nothing but the prejudices of her class to sustain her, she now addressed her husband with disdain.

“You are speaking of the king!” she protested. “We owe him obedience.” Seeing their astonished looks, she burst out: “You call yourselves barons? You’re nothing but merchants. You talk of a commune. It’s an impertinence. The king will crush you, and quite rightly. You should pay your taxes and do as you’re told.” Then, finally, “You forget your place.”

Within this speech lay all the pain of her own humiliation, and a reminder to them that, whatever they might do to her, she was still a lady. Flushed and angry, Ida felt rather proud. It did not occur to her that every word of it was absurd.

For a moment Bull was completely silent, staring down impassively at the heavy oak table. Then he spoke.

“I see I made a mistake when I married you, my lady. I had not realized you were so stupid. But as my wife I believe your place is to obey me, so get out.”

As she turned, white and shaking, she saw young David at the door, watching her.

In the weeks that followed, the relationship between Ida and Bull remained cold. Both were secretly hurt by the exchange, and like other couples who discover they despise one another, they retreated into a state of armed neutrality.

Brother Michael continued to come to the house. He did what he could to make them cheerful, and prayed for them, but he was not sure if he had much success. As for David, if Ida wondered what he made of the dispute, it soon became clear, for only days afterwards, sitting quietly with her one afternoon, he asked: “Is my father wicked?” When she replied that of course he wasn’t, he persisted, “But surely he shouldn’t speak against the king?”

“No,” she admitted frankly, “he shouldn’t.” But she refused to discuss it any further.

Only one thing during this period gave her a small satisfaction. Despite her failure to interest him before her marriage, she did not give up in her attempt to claim kinship with the Lord Fitzwalter. Once, cleverly trapping him as he came from a Mass in St Paul’s, she forced him to acknowledge her existence. Meanwhile, by referring to him frequently as her kinsman, she could see that she had impressed several of her husband’s friends, who displayed in her presence a faint social discomfort which, at this time, was her greatest pleasure.

And so autumn proceeded into winter. In early December, King Richard crossed the sea to Normandy, and England was quiet.

It was one winter’s night that Sister Mabel nearly sent Brother Michael to perdition. Or so, in after years, she liked to think.

Midwinter had come to London, and all the world was seeking warmth. At St Bartholomew’s it was the feast of Christmas. Darkness had fallen and there was a quarter-moon. The priory roof was covered with a mantle of snow; the interior of the cloister was a pale, staring square. After the service of compline, the canons held a feast. There was swan, spiced wine, three kinds of fish, and sweetmeats. Even the inmates of the hospital were fed by the light of smoking lamps what morsels they could manage, and throughout the establishment there was a sense of good cheer.

So perhaps it was not surprising that, having drunk more than she realized, Sister Mabel felt a little flushed; nor even that, as they passed through the cloister where a brazier was burning, she should have suggested to Brother Michael that they sit by its warmth and talk a while.

They sat quietly in the glow from the charcoal. Brother Michael, too, was feeling relaxed. They spoke of their families, and by and by it came about that she asked him if he had ever loved a woman. “Yes,” he answered, he supposed he had. “But I took my vows to this,” he said, indicating the long cloister of their religious home.

“No one would have married me,” she confessed.

And it was then, with a giggle, that Sister Mabel made her move. Pulling up her habit to a little above the knee, she gave him a curious smile and stuck out one leg. “I used to think my legs were all right,” she said. “What do you think?”

It was a strong, plump little leg with freckled skin and surprisingly few hairs, and those so fair that they scarcely showed. A pretty enough leg, many would have said. Brother Michael gazed at it.

There was no mistaking her intention, but he was not shocked. Indeed, he was touched. Realizing that this was the first and only sexual advance Mabel would make in her life, kindly Brother Michael kissed her gently on the forehead and remarked: “A fine leg indeed, Sister Mabel, with which to serve God.”

Then he quietly rose and walked away through the cloisters and out of St Bartholomew’s into the great, blank emptiness of Smithfield.

Two days later, having consoled herself with the thought that if the Devil was after Brother Michael, he had failed this time, she told her confessor cheerfully, “It’s over for me. I shall go to hell and there’s nothing you can do about it. But Brother Michael’s still all right.”

On the last night of December, a secret meeting took place.

The seven men who arrived separately and unnoticed at the house near the London Stone were all of the rank of alderman. At their discussion, which lasted an hour, they not only agreed upon what they wanted, but devised the strategies and tactics they would use. “The first thing to be addressed,” their leader announced to general agreement, “is the question of the farm.” But there were other, deeper matters also to be considered.

It was towards the end of the meeting when someone remarked that what they needed was a stooge, that Alderman Sampson Bull, after a moment’s thought, declared: “I know exactly the man. Leave it to me.” When they asked him who, he smiled and answered:

“Silversleeves.”

Nor was it simply chance that only days later messengers came to London with important and frightening news.

John, the king’s brother, had arrived on England’s shores.

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Pentecost Silversleeves gazed at the Barnikel family. They did not like him, but that did not matter. They were not important. There was the stout, red-haired fishmonger and his children, another woman he did not know holding the hand of a little boy, and that curious creature Sister Mabel.

“It’s not fair,” Sister Mabel protested.

He knew that.

“I paid for those nets,” the fishmonger reminded him.

“I fear,” Pentecost said smoothly, “there will be no compensation.”

“Then there’s one law for the rich and one for the poor,” Mabel stated in disgust. At which Silversleeves smiled.

“Of course,” he said.

Kiddles. The perennial problem of the Thames. Not that on this occasion Barnikel’s nets had actually damaged Bull’s ship, but the sight of them in the river one morning had infuriated the rich merchant. He had spoken to Silversleeves, who had spoken to the chancellor, and within a day their removal was ordered, despite the fact that the fishmonger, who, though not poor, was only a modest trader, had paid handsomely for the right to have them there. As soon as he left, Silversleeves would hasten to inform Bull of what had been done. Which was only natural, since for the last three months Alderman Sampson Bull had become his greatest friend.

How slowly, almost imperceptibly, it had all begun. At first there had been only whispers, vague rumours, but he knew how to read the signs, and by March he had been sure. It was John.

Why had King Richard relented and allowed his younger brother to enter England? Because he despised him. Indeed, in comparison with the rest of his family, John cut a poor figure. Where his father flew into rages, John had epileptic fits. Where Richard was tall, fair and heroic, John was dark, stout, stood only five feet five, and was an unlucky soldier. Occasionally brilliant, he did everything by fits and starts, and Richard was not afraid of him. But, like any Plantagenet, he coveted his brother’s throne.

To all outward appearances, he did nothing. Richard was still only two weeks’ journey away, collecting his forces on the Continent and consulting with his fellow crusader the King of France. John remained on his vast estates in the west of England. Hunting and hawking mostly, the reports said. But Silversleeves was not deceived. He’s biding his time, he concluded, before he strikes. And he knew who the target would be.

His patron, Longchamp.

To begin with it had seemed that all was going so well. The chancellor had succeeded brilliantly, becoming in his master’s absence the most powerful man in England. For his assiduous devotion, Pentecost had already been rewarded with a handsome benefice or two. The future might have been bright indeed, had it not been for one problem.

“Longchamp’s arrogant. That’s the trouble,” Pentecost told his wife. “He’s made enemies.” The chancellor had, unfortunately, made no secret of his scorn for some of the great feudal families. “And they mean to bring him down,” the Exchequer clerk lamented.

“They must not succeed,” his large wife cried. “He’s worth a fortune to us.”

The signs were small, but ominous. If any knight or baron ran foul of the chancellor, it was not long before a report came that they had gone to visit John. There were other rumours too. As early as January a merchant had remarked to him, “They say John’s agents are already in London,” though when he had asked who, the man had refused to say. Pentecost had been watchful, but was unable to discover anything.

How lucky, then, that he had become so friendly with Bull.

He could hardly say how it had happened. A casual invitation to the merchant’s house. A few chance encounters. If he had analysed it, Pentecost might have concluded that Bull had begun the friendship. Anyway, he was glad of it. “No one knows what’s going on in the city better than he does,” he told his wife. “I mean to stay close to him.”