London Folk Tales (5 page)

But when you’re rich, and getting richer, who wants a cobbler for a son-in-law? Even a good one would never be good enough for John Over. So poor Mary was told that her romance was over, and that she was to settle down on the north side of the river, and learn to be a lady. ‘On no account,’ said her father, ‘are you to see that young man again. I will find a better match for you, never fear.’

But of course she did fear; in fact she dreaded the future, because she saw the sort of match he was lining up for her. And she saw what being rich was doing to her father. And she was wise enough to see that no good would come of either. For her father couldn’t keep pace with himself. The more money John Over got, the more that he wanted. And the less he wanted to let go of it. He wanted it seen but not spent.

So he would eke out this, make Mary do without that, snitch and pinch from here and there, and the more he saved the more he minded any money going out. There was no doing without servants, or house slaves, not for a man of his station. But there was, he thought, no need for them to eat and drink so much. Enough to ruin him! He kept a close watch on the food supplies and a sharp eye on the cellar stores, and he became certain both were reducing at an alarming and rather suspicious rate. ‘Surely,’ he thought, ‘there must be some way to cut consumption down?’ And to cut out altogether the snacking and sipping and petty theft he suspected. But what on earth could he do? The problem worried and worried at him until he could not sleep and would barely eat, and he grew very thin. In the end Mary had to get a physician in. ‘Because,’ she told her father, in defence of the expense, ‘I don’t want you to die.’

And that’s what gave John Over his brilliant idea: how to save enough money to pay for a physician twenty times over. For in those days, when somebody died, of course you’d have a wake, for one or two or even three days, and naturally, to show proper respect, the family and household would abstain from all indulgences. That meant, as far as possible, and in accordance with the wishes of the deceased, to a greater or lesser extent, that they would fast. John realised with delight that the whole household fasting to its greatest extent would save him a great deal of money. Especially if he specified his wake must last three days. And what was more, he began to think, if the servants thought he was dead and gone, and looking at his maker now, and not watching them at all, why then it would be the perfect chance for him to see exactly what they got up to secretly.

So when the physician arrived, John was very pleased to see him, for he had plenty to discuss with the good man, to the advantage of them both. So the two soon made a deal, and the physician put a grave face on, and said John was very ill. And next thing he was dying, and then the priest was rushing in for the last rites, and then the word was given out that he was dead.

Poor Mary. Before she had time to know what was what, they were having the wake. And she had loved her father, mean though he’d been. So she was weeping and wailing, and all in black, top to toe, even her hair, even her head, covered up entirely. And their mirror was too – even though it was special to own one of them, then, so you’d normally have them on show. But now it was John Over who was the centrepiece. He was lying in his coffin, laid out in state in the middle of the great hall, dressed in his best and looking rather grand, with candles around, and the onion in the coffin (in case the corpse got whiffy), decently hidden from view.

Now some people take wakes seriously, and some people think they need a bit of lightness and laughter too, just to help people get through them. But there was no respite at John Over’s wake. It was a grave and a glum affair. Apart from Mary, it was mainly the household, plus a few of the ferrymen who’d worked for him. The notables of the town had been and gone, as swiftly as they could politely do. His friends had all been left behind in Southwark.

So everyone was sitting round, hoping someone else would speak. But no one knew quite what to say. To be honest, no one had been that fond of him. Except for his daughter, but then she had had no choice. And after all she’d been through – weeping and wailing, and before that watching over him, and worrying about him – well she was worn out, and she’d fallen asleep in a corner. So she wasn’t saying anything either.

In all that silence, the only thing you could hear was the rumbling of stomachs. Only natural, really, they’d been fasting for a day and a night already. The ferrymen in particular were used to eating a big ‘noon-meat’, essential fuel if they were to pull their weight across the water. The slaves and the servants too had been up since dawn the day before, for they had had to fit the housework in as well. It didn’t feel healthy to be going on empty. And once Mary’s womanservant put her foot down, ‘she must have a rest, poor thing, she’s so done in’, and made two strong ferrymen help carry Mary off to bed – well, there was no one there who might care the if the fast didn’t last.

Anyway, not everyone thought thirst a required part, so now they all agreed that some small ale wouldn’t count. So the serving woman went to the cellars for some pots, and the head man hurried after because now they were kept locked. As he was waiting with the keys, he noticed how much wine there was. A shame if it went to waste, for Mary never did touch much. Wouldn’t it be the right thing done, if they all had a cup just to toast the old man? And after all, he thought, he won’t miss it now he’s gone. But upstairs and down with a jug was such trouble, he thought he’d be wise and bring up a barrel.

The mourners did mean to take just one cup of course. Only enough to drink the toast. But you know what wine does on an empty stomach. It goes straight to the head. So one drink led on to another, to another, and before they knew what they’d done, the whole of the barrel was gone. But then there was another one. And plenty more to come. Then everything was coming out, all restraint gone, the cook was bringing dishes up, the servants laying out the best, and everyone amongst them was having a fine feast. Except, of course, for John.

John Over, he was lying there, gritting his teeth. But they were all so merry drunk now, no one looked to see. And the party was still getting louder and louder, each person trying to outdo the other, until John’s personal manservant capped the lot. ‘There’s still the best yet!’ he cried, ‘Look what I’ve got!’ and he waved the only key to the master’s treasure box.

John held his breath, for he guessed what was next. The man ran out, and soon came back carrying, very carefully, an almost priceless glass bottle of old French brandy. It was the most impressive gift John Over had ever been given. He’d kept it for years, for the ultimate occasion. And when he saw his servant with that bottle in his hand, it was far too much for John Over to stand. Up he leapt and over he ran to wrest his treasure back.

Well when that servant saw his master, who had so sadly died, suddenly and most unnaturally deciding to arise, he did what anyone would do if threatened by such an unexpected and alarming apparition. He defended himself with whatever he had to hand. Thwack! Down it came, and crack! It met its master’s head. Sad to say, the bottle was broken, wasting all that was inside. And John Over’s head was broken too, equally wasting all within. For that was the death of him.

So now the wake had to happen all over again. This time it had a proper corpse, although perhaps not looking quite as grand as it had done before. And this time there was no pretence of abstinence. Everyone needed a drink.

After the wake, John Over was duly buried, despite initial objections from the physician. And it was when that was over, that Mary realised she was very wealthy indeed – and alone. But there was no need to be lonely. For now she was both rich and free, she could marry who she pleased.

So she sat down at once, took out her quill and wrote to Gerald. That was one skill she’d gladly got from learning to be a lady. It had enabled them to stay in touch, while she still kept her father’s command ‘never to see him’.

‘My love, please come, for I am free, if you still wish to marry me.’

Gerald wasn’t quite as good at his letters as Mary was, but he had no difficulty in getting the gist of her message. He sent his reply back by return over London Bridge, which by now had been patched up so that people could pass, providing the weather was good enough.

‘As soon as I finish my work tomorrow, I will be with you. My love is true,’ came the reply.

Mary, you can be sure, went joyfully to bed that night. But then she was disturbed by the strangest of dreams. St Crispin, the patron saint of cobblers and shoemakers, came to her and whispered in her ear, ‘Be sure and tell your love not to hurry too much. He must come to you only on his own shoes.’

Well, she woke up confused as to what the dream meant, but nevertheless, she sent Gerald another message, faithfully repeating what the saint had said. But the wind was blowing on the bridge that day, and the message was a bit delayed. And having got the first message, Gerald naturally wasn’t waiting around for another. His kindly master, the shoemaker, even let him leave a little early, for everyone likes to see true love triumph. And Gerald had hired a horse, so he could travel in style. Head high, face wreathed in smiles, he rode out over London Bridge.

Maybe it was the bridge that shook, maybe it wasn’t flat underfoot, but all of a sudden the horse cast a shoe, and stumbled. And poor Gerald was thrown right off, and broke his neck.

Poor Mary Over. Not much luck in that horseshoe, was there? Without her love, she lost all taste for London life. She sold the goods and house her father had left her, and with the money built a house for holy sisters, a little priory church in Southwark, which by and by was known as St Mary Overie; and years after was subsumed in Southwark Cathedral. It was right beside the south end of London Bridge, placed so close that all within might look up, if they wished, to make sure all who went that way were safe. There Mary retreated to pass her life in peace. And when she came to die, she was buried underneath, perhaps united now at last with her beloved Gerald.

Lost love and lost life. Was that their sacrifice? Was this Mary’s offering of spirit strength to the new London Bridge? For it was thanks to her, and the profits of John Over’s ferry business, that money was available for essential rebuilding work. London Bridge was much improved with wooden towers at each end, and it was made so wide, two oxen wagons could travel along it side by side. Most impressive of all, the great weight was held up by oaken piles, sunk into the river bed beneath the bridge and standing straight upright – like living oak trees, only that they were quite bare. No hopes there of roots and shoots and new green growth.

Build it up with seasoned oak,

Seasoned oak, seasoned oak,

Build it up with seasoned oak,

My fair lady.

But the bridge was barely restored before Edgar the Peaceful died and it wasn’t long before the crown was in the unsteady hands of Æthelred the Unready, the ‘Redeless one.’ Then the Danes came again to harry England, led by their King, Sweyn Forkbeard. They sailed up the Thames with the tide, intending to raze London to the ground, and to burn the bridge down. But the citizens of London, young and old, were so stoutly bold that they beat the Danes back.

And Æthelred followed unwise advice, as always, and paid for peace with bribes, £10,000 Danegeld fees, and then thrice that much again. Raised from taxes that all but broke the backs of the English, and Londoners most of all. But even worse, soon after, the king commanded the slaughter of all Danish settlers living in England. And in all of this, they say, the king was guided by the serpent tongue of Edric Streona, ‘the refuse of mankind’.

Through this last disastrous decree, Æthelred murdered Sweyn Forkbeard’s own sister, and brought upon them the full force of the Danish King’s revenge. And this time, by blockades across the Thames, the Londoners were starved into submission. Then the Danish fleet sailed in, settling their ships along the river and their men in Southwark, and took charge of London Bridge, and so controlled the city. That might have been the end of Anglo-Saxon London then, and certainly the end for Æthelred, if he had not persuaded King Olaf of Norway to come onto his side.

King Olaf came with his Norsemen, and he saw how well the Danes could fight from London Bridge. They used it to attack, and to defend. They had towers on each side, and high barricades, to hide from spears thrown or arrows fired. But when his ships came below they could shoot and drop down stones, so no one could come close or pass beneath. And one more thing he took note of. The great oak piles on which the bridge depended.

Then Olaf knew that in order to win, they must take the bridge away from the Danes. But no one understood what he meant by that, except for his own Norse friends. Together they went down the river to where there were old houses built of wood and wattle and daub. These they took down, and bound them together to make strong shields of wood. Then they held them over their longships, as if they were great roofs.

Now they were ready to row upstream to the bridge. Their shields saved them from the Danish arrows and when they got near, from the worst of stones, and they rowed so fast that they just got through and under the bridge itself. There they were safe from the Danes’ reach, and they waited for the tide to turn. Then they filled a small boat with rotten wood, and set fire to it against an oak pile, so the flames licked all the way up and at last the bridge began to smoke.

Seasoned oak will burn and smoke,

Burn and smoke, burn and smoke,

Seasoned oak will burn and smoke,

My fair lady.

In the confusion, Olaf and his men tied ropes and cables as low as they could around the great oak piles. Then, when the tide was going out, they rowed with the river, as hard as they might, towing these ropes behind. Now, the current of the River Thames and the pull of the men between them was so strong that the oak piles were dragged out of place at the base. Then London Bridge, with its great weight of men and heavy piles of stones, with creaks and groans and cries and moans, came tumbling down into the river. And with the bridge that day were drowned the men and hopes of Denmark.