London (61 page)

And finally he had come to grief, just like his father John: a series of foreign entanglements that were vastly expensive had aborted; a large section of the barons, led by the great Simon de Montfort, had rebelled, and had set up a new council to govern the king, as though he were a child again. Montfort had called a huge assembly of barons, knights and even burgesses, which he called a Parliament. For a few short years it had even looked as if some new kind of kingship, subject to a great council, might develop in England. And in the midst of this turmoil, the awful thing had happened.

There had been dozens of riots in London before. But this one was different. It was not just the poor folk or hot-blooded apprentices. Solid citizens – fishmongers, skinners, traders and craftsmen – had led the ancient Folkmoot in an organized rebellion against rich dynasts like the Bulls. There were riots; a party, led by a furious young fishmonger called Barnikel, had even smashed the door of Bull’s house and tried to set light to it. Worse still, Montfort had let these radicals depose the aldermen and elect new, vulgar fellows of their own. And this disgraceful state of affairs had continued for some time until at last Montfort had been killed, the king returned to power, and the old patriciate managed to get control of London again.

Worst of all – the thought of it still made Bull clench his fists in fury – his father’s own brother had joined these rebels. A number of young idealists, or opportunists, from other patrician families had done the same. “But that doesn’t make it any better,” William’s father had told him. “A traitor is a traitor, and that’s that.” The young radical had been cut off from the family for ever. And now, for the third time this year, here was the traitor’s wretched son, pestering him for help. It was an outrage. But then his brow cleared, and he even grunted with a hint of pleasure. For after the great decision he had just taken, this visit was rather appropriate. I am growing cruel, he thought. But he saw no reason why he should deny himself a modest revenge.

As the merchant stared fixedly at his unwitting victim – to whom at that moment and in his present posture he appeared like a large and rather frightening toad – he said abruptly: “I’ll give you three marks if you go away.” This was enough to improve the family’s meals for some time, but not enough to make the slightest change in their circumstances. Elias looked anguished. “But if you come and find me here in a year from today,” William shrugged, “perhaps I’ll even give you the inheritance that might have been yours. Now get out,” he suddenly cried, “and shut the door after you.” At which poor Elias Bull, much mystified, departed.

The cruelty of William’s little joke lay in the one fact he had withheld: the big decision he had just taken.

In a year’s time, he would not be there. The Bulls were leaving London. For good.

In a way it was not surprising. Even his father had said: “The city is becoming intolerable.” The problem for his father, apart from the rebellion, was contained in a single word. Immigrants. It was natural, in the booming prosperity of that century, that London should have swollen. But the stream of immigrants had turned into a flood: Italians, Spaniards, French and Flemings, Germans from the growing network of northern ports known as the Hansa, not to mention the merchants and artisans flocking in from the regions of England. Worse yet, with the exception of the Hansa men, who kept themselves apart, they were mixing and marrying with exactly the craftsmen who had been such a confounded nuisance under Montfort. “These vulgar upstarts and foreigners are crowding us out,” the old patrician claimed.

For William, the process was summed up by an event that took place a year before old King Henry died. The little steeple over St Mary-le-Bow had come down in a storm and smashed a nearby house the Bulls owned. Normally this would have been quickly repaired; but his father had hesitated, then decided to sell. A year later, together with three smaller houses of the Bulls, it was being shared by a dye-master from Picardy and a Cordova leather-seller from Spain. Then, in nearby Garlick Hill, some vulgar tanners had moved in. These were small things, yet a sign of the times. But the final blow had been when his own house, previously in the aristocratic parish of St Mary-le-Bow, had been made part of the tiny parish of St Lawrence Silversleeves. A mean little church, not worthy of the patrician Bulls. Nothing could disguise the fact that the family was in retreat.

If the long reign of Henry III had been bad for the family, the last twenty years under his son Edward had been a nightmare. No English king was ever more impressive than Edward I. Tall and powerful, with a noble face and a flowing beard, his only peculiarities were a drooping left eyelid and a lisp when he spoke. A vigorous law-giver and commander, he was both intelligent and cunning. The leopard, they called him. And having seen his father’s often pathetic rule, he was determined to impose his own, iron will. He was usually successful. Already he had subdued the Welsh, secured their land with huge castles, and given them their first, English Prince of Wales. Soon he would march north, to hammer the Scots as well. And if there was one body of men in his kingdom he disliked, it was the proud patrician aldermen of London who elected their own mayor and thought they could make kings.

His attack had been cunning. For what merchant could deny that Edward was his friend? His laws were just and good for trade. Debts were regulated, taxes simplified, with a new but reasonable duty on wool exports that could mostly be passed on to the foreign customers. “Yet look at what he’s quietly done to us patricians,” William would point out. “He’s pushed the best wine trade to fellows from Bordeaux; the biggest wool dealers are either Italians or men from the West Country.” And while his father had always made huge and profitable sales of luxury goods to the Wardrobe, as the royal purchasing office was called, William could not sell them a thing. “We’ve been sidestepped,” he bitterly concluded. “That leopard’s run round us.”

Yet even this was only the softening up. The real assault, which had begun ten years ago, was devastating. For suddenly, on the pretext of improving law and order, King Edward had dismissed the mayor and put in his own warden. The aldermen had been aghast. But they got no support from the Londoners. And then King Edward had set to work. A barrage of ordinances followed: records, courts, weights and measures – all reformed with Edward’s usual thoroughness. “I suppose,” Bull conceded, “our sort of rule may have been a bit slack.” But the sting was in the tail. “His laws give any foreigner the same trading rights as ours,” Bull stormed. The king’s Exchequer court abruptly moved into the Guildhall, where the aldermen’s Husting court had always held sway. Two years ago, when the aldermen had finally protested – “What about London’s ancient privileges?” – the warden had coolly thrown them out of office and replaced them with new men, chosen by the Exchequer. “And do you know who these new fellows are?” Bull stormed. “Fishmongers, skinners, smelly little craftsmen.” The Montfort rebels were back.

Yet even then, the old guard had not quite given up. They had ruled London for centuries, after all. Many, indeed, had looked to Bull – a respectable figure not yet tainted by office – as a possible champion. Recently he had thought he saw his chance.

A year ago, to help pay for the coming Scottish campaign. King Edward had overstepped the mark by abruptly raising the customs on wool. This new tax, known as the
maltote
, was so severe that all London had protested. And while the city was still simmering, the post of alderman for Bull’s own ward suddenly fell vacant.

He had been assiduous. “In my father’s day,” he remarked to his family, “we owned so much of this ward that the aldermanry was ours for the asking.” But he made no such assumptions now. Swallowing his pride, he had courted the lesser merchants and craftsmen; he had made himself agreeable to the king’s warden. Even one of the vulgar new aldermen quietly confessed to him: “We need a sound man of standing, like you.” As the day drew close, no one from the ward had troubled to challenge him.

And yesterday the day had come. Discreetly, happily, his sense of family history lending him a dignity of which he was rather proud, William Bull in a fine new cloak had presented himself at the Guildhall to be chosen.

The Exchequer man who waved him away had scarcely troubled even to be polite. “We don’t want you,” he said curtly. “We’ve chosen someone else.” When Bull, mystified, had protested – “But I’m unopposed” – the fellow had only snapped back, “Not from your ward. From Billingsgate.” An outside man. It was unusual, though sometimes done.

“Who?” he had asked, mortified.

And then the reply, quite casual. “Barnikel,” the fellow said.

Barnikel. That cursed, low-born fishmonger. Barnikel of Billingsgate, alderman of the Bulls’ own ward! For several minutes he stood outside the Guildhall, almost unable to take it in. And now, as he brooded about it once more, he knew: it was too much to bear.

The great decision was made: it was time to go.

Which left the smaller decision.

It should have been easy – and pleasant too. The message from Bankside had certainly been intriguing. A virgin at the Dog’s Head. A rarity indeed. Only the most favoured customers were being told: you could be sure of that. Though his own excursions to the whorehouse were only occasional, he was still a patrician, and the brothelkeeper was always as respectful as he was discreet.

So why did he hesitate? A pang of guilt. Was it really necessary to feel guilty? As if in answer to his thoughts at that moment, there was a thump at the door, followed by a querulous voice. Inwardly he groaned.

“What are you doing?” His wife.

“What the devil do you suppose?” he thundered.

“No you aren’t. You’ve been in there an hour.” Was this, he asked himself, any way to address a middle-aged merchant of distinction? “I know what you’re doing,” her voice went on. “You’re thinking.” He sighed. The rows between his great-grandmother Ida and her husband were part of family legend: but surely, he thought, no Bull had ever had to put up with a wife like his. “I heard you,” she called. “You sighed.”

He had tried, over twenty miserable years, to love her. After all, he daily reminded himself, she had given him three strong children. But it was not easy and, in the last few years, he had quietly given up. Grey, gaunt, insistent, she complained if he was out and harassed him if he was home. No wonder, he thought to himself, if he sometimes sought a little quiet solace on Bankside. Now therefore, if only to relieve the tedium, he told her his big decision.

“We’re leaving London. We’re going to live at Bocton.” He paused, heard her gasp, and added for good measure: “All year round.”

In fact, Bull’s plan was not unusual. While London merchants had often retired to their estates in the past, a number of his own patrician contemporaries, finding the competition in the city too hot, had stopped trading and turned into country gentlemen. Thank God there was still a substantial fortune. He would simply buy more land. But now he heard a cry of disbelief.

“I hate the country.” He smiled. He knew. “I shall stay here in London,” she protested.

“Not in this house,” he said cheerfully. “I’m selling it.”

“To whom?”

That, as it happened, was the easy bit. For if there was one feature of the booming city that all men remarked upon, it was the astonishing increase, since his childhood, in the number of drinking establishments. In a city with a resident population of around seventy thousand, there were already some three hundred taverns serving food and drink, not to mention another thousand little brew-houses offering a beaker of ale. Some of the taverns were quite large affairs, offering sleeping quarters for the city’s many visitors too; and some of their owners had made fortunes. Only a month ago an enterprising fellow who owned two of these had told him: “If you ever want to sell your own house, I’ll give you a good price.” So now Bull informed his wife: “I’m selling to a taverner.”

“You beast.” She began to cry. He cast his eyes to heaven. “You brute!”

“I’m going out,” he said, and prayed for silence. But there was only a brief and hostile pause, and then that dreadful, plaintive murmur.

“I know where you’re going. After some woman.”

It was too much. “I wish to God I were,” he bellowed back, thumping both hands on the embroidered cushion. “Shall I tell you where I’m going? I’m going to get the city sergeants. And when I come back with them, we’re going to put you in a scold’s bridle. And then I’ll have them lead you through the streets. That’s where I’m going.”

It was not a pretty thing, the scold’s bridle. Foul-mouthed women were sometimes sentenced to wear the little iron cage that fitted over the head, with a cruel iron bit that went in the mouth to immobilize the tongue. Encased in this, unpopular women would be paraded about, in the same way as other malefactors were put in the stocks. He heard her weeping, and felt ashamed.

He made up his mind. It was too much. He would stand no more. A moment later he was striding past her and out of his house. And so it was, just after noon, that William Bull arrived at the whore-house on Bankside, and, accompanied by the grinning brothelkeeper, strode towards Joan.

He was, the man assured him, the very first to get there.

Joan looked at William Bull.

He was, she supposed, about forty. She saw a large, burly man in a cloak, with thick calves, hide boots folded over below the knee, and a florid face, who was obviously used to being obeyed. Already he had rewarded the brothelkeeper for the pleasure of taking her virginity.

It was quiet. At that hour of the day there were few customers about, and most of the prostitutes were either out or sleeping. Of the Dogget sisters there was no sign.

Suddenly, she became angry. Striding over to the brothelkeeper, she cried, “You promised me no customers until tomorrow, you filthy liar.”

Bull looked questioningly at the man’s wife.

“It’s nothing, sir,” that worthy woman called. “She’s just a little nervous.” To Joan she hissed: “You’ll do as you’re told.”