London Folk Tales (7 page)

They were too independent, with all their rights to trade, and parade, and vote at the Folkmoot. Unruly too – he knew they were plotting and planning all around in that ugly English consonant harsh tongue, so unpleasant to hear, and impossible to understand. Uncivilised lot, he thought; didn’t even eat properly with a fork. Just a knife for everything, and the blades were as sharp as could be; altogether too knife happy as far as he could see.

So William decided he must show his strength, and do something to put Londoners in their place. He had a tower built by the river, into the Roman wall, on the site where the Romans had a bastion centuries before. It was on the little hill beneath which Bran’s head lay. He commissioned a Norman style motte and bailey, but square rather than round, and much bigger than normal, made of solid stone. It was clearly a good treasury, and a formidable defence, but above all this new ‘Tower of London’ was intended to impress. And oppress as well, for Londoners saw it was built to control, not to protect them all.

The Conqueror, however, was content. For the present, at least, the problem was solved. But being a restless man, he soon began looking ahead, and envisaging difficulties to come. For what would happen to his lands when he was gone? He had amassed a huge amount and he wanted it all to be kept, and looked after and accounted for, so it could be used to best effect. He had sent his men all over the country, collecting information. Every town and village and household was neatly noted down. Who belonged to what, and what exactly they had got, and most important, how much tax was due. Every wood, common, hill and hollow, every farm and field, fertile or fallow. All accounts were bound together, into the great Domesday Book.

William knew exactly what he had at his disposal. And he didn’t want it squandered and lost the moment he shut his eyes and died. But keeping it all in one pair of hands required a certain sort of man, like himself, with an eye on everything. He did not expect that ability in any of his sons; only that they would fight for succession as soon as he was gone. No. It would be better to divide his lands between them. But who should get what? Unable to decide, he asked his councillors.

The king’s advisers were wise indeed, or they would never have survived at court, which was a place of whispers and intrigue. Consequently, they did not offer their opinions directly.

‘Majesté,’ they said, ‘the natures of your kingdoms are so different. And the same is true of your young sons. Look into their hearts, and you will see who suits which part.’

‘And how may I do that?’ demanded William.

‘Tell them to go to your Tower of London, and let us talk to them there, one by one. And you, Majesté, should listen privately.’

So when the time came, the king and his councillors climbed to the top of the tower and the king hid himself behind a door, where he could hear all, but could not be seen.

Robert, his eldest son, tall and finely dressed, was first to come up the steps. From that height they could see for miles in all directions.

‘Young Sire,’ said one councillor. ‘Please can you tell me, if God had made you as a bird, which one might you wish to be?’

Robert looked around him slowly, and then paused, eyes on the east and the wild open marshes. ‘I would be a goshawk,’ he said. ‘It is the noblest of all birds.’

‘What signifies the choice my first son made?’ the king asked afterwards.

‘The goshawk’s name is
gentilus
which means nobility indeed,’ the councillors explained. ‘Your son is a knight at heart, a brave fighter, independent, yet obedient to a master. But hawks fly far from home, forgetting all in the chase.’

The next to come was William Rufus, red haired as his father. ‘What do you want with me?’ he asked. Again they asked him to select a bird. William looked straight upwards, almost into the sun itself. ‘I would be an eagle,’ he said at once. ‘It dominates all others.’

This time when the king asked, his men were slow to answer him. ‘The eagle is a royal bird, but it lives by rapine. This son would be a king, but rule through fear, and never seek to know his people.’

The last son to come was Henry, the youngest and least regarded. They asked him the same question, and he thought for a long while, looking down towards the city, and smiling at the scene spread beneath him. The fields beyond the settlement still held within the walls, the bustling cheap, and the busy streets with shops and traders of all sorts, and nestling in between them the old church of All Hallows. Even high up as they were, they could hear and smell the force of the life bubbling below.

‘I would be a starling,’ he said with quiet certainty. ‘It is a social bird, bright and debonair. It does not rob its neighbours and it has an excellent ear.’

‘The starling is a common bird,’ cried William when his son had gone. ‘Of what use is one who prefers that?’

His advisers smiled. ‘This prince would be a man of peace, unless he had to fight,’ they said. ‘The starling, Pliny says, listens best and quickly learns all tongues; he has heard one speak in Latin and in Greek. So, hearing all men, your son would learn how to govern them.’

William remembered the wisdom of his councillors, and on his deathbed he divided up his lands and goods accordingly. England he bequeathed to cruel William Rufus, so this rough land might be subdued by an iron hand. Normandy, more civilised, he left to Robert, the noble knight. To Henry, he gave silver and his personal treasures, to enable him to pursue the peaceful life of a learned man.

But perhaps the king’s advisors were wiser in their forecasts than their master realised.

William Rufus, King of England, like an arrogant eagle, despising all beneath, disregarded the power of small birds to unite and find other ways to fight a predator. Hated by all for his ruthless rule, he was killed by an ‘accidental arrow’ when out hunting in the New Forest.

Robert, eager as any goshawk to fly high and fight, joined the First Crusade for glory and rich pickings. He paid twofold for his time away. It cost him his Norman lands, mortgaged to Henry to support the cause. And it lost him the moment to grab the English crown. Too late, he challenged his youngest brother. Beaten back like an aging hawk, he was then ‘hooded’ – held impotent, a captive in his father’s tower.

Wealthy Henry ‘Beauclerc’ listened, and learned how to talk and connect with all. A social networker, he drew support together to help him claim the crown when Rufus died, and later to defeat his brother Robert. So the simple starling turned out to be the best bird of them all. And the sole successor of the Conqueror.

What chance of success is there in London if you are one of the poor? In medieval Norman times there was little to hope for unless you knew how to entertain. That’s one way out that has never changed. Especially if you can make people laugh. Rahere could do that easily enough. He was a natural mimic, with an ever-ready wit, and an excellent ear for everything. He could sing any song, even if he’d only heard it once, and play any instrument that had strings. But most of all, he had such
joie de vivre
himself that he couldn’t help transmitting it to everybody else.

Not that you would have thought he had much to be merry about. He came from a poor family, with many children too. From the first he longed to be noticed, but what was he to do? It was the hardest of harsh times then – the Red King William Rufus’ reign. No opening for anyone except the King’s few friends.

But it seemed Rahere was born under a lucky star after all. For it wasn’t long before the hated red-headed king died. It was most unexpected – an accident with an arrow. Fortunately, his brother Henry was there to pick up the reins of power.

Of course nothing changed overnight, and some barely even noticed the difference. But little by little English life began to improve for many. Opportunities opened, and the effects trickled down.

For a start, Henry was the first Norman ruler to learn the English language. And he insisted it was spoken alongside French, even at the Norman court. Perhaps that was also because his wife, Matilda, was a Scottish princess of Anglo-Saxon stock. But the message was clear; the new King and Queen represented what England was to be – an Anglo-Norman alliance.

Soon there were jobs for all sorts at court. The great hall of Westminster palace, built by William Rufus, and one of the few things that he could be proud of, now buzzed with all manner of activities. Law-making, administrative reform and matters of state; clerics and learned men gathering for scholarly debate; writers and poets vying for
le mot juste
or cleverest rhyme; musicians blowing, plucking, strumming, drumming out time; feasting, drinking, singing, dancing, juggling and entertaining, romancing and love making. Affairs of every imaginable kind. Henry loved his queen but he had a big appetite and a taste for many a pretty face. And he set the pace. His court was notoriously gay. Infamously so, some might say. But what happens behind closed doors, especially in royal palaces, is probably best left ignored. Unless you want to play too.

Meanwhile Rahere was growing up fast. He discovered early on that food and sometimes money might be won if you could amuse someone. It had started quite simply in the street. He had just been playing, entertaining his brothers, and some soldiers passing by had stopped and watched. As they went on, one threw down a coin. It was a quarter of a round esterlin or penny. Rahere couldn’t believe his eyes. Nor could his mother who happened to be watching, and had it off him before he even had time to admire the way it glittered in the sunshine.

After that, his family agreed, it would be a sin for him to waste such God-given skills. As he was lithe and light on his feet, and his fingers were nimble and quick, it didn’t take him long to learn a range of clever tricks: juggling and jumping, wheeling and tumbling, balancing on one hand or two, or even on his head.

Soon he was ready to be sent out, sometimes with his brothers but mostly on his own, because that way he was more likely to want to hurry home after. It was frightening to be small and out late on your own. Not so much for fear of people, but more because of the animals, especially the pigs that’d be out in the street for any rubbish they could eat. A sow could give a nasty bite if you surprised her in the night.

As the years went by, Rahere got used to his work. He focussed on places where something was already going on, a Saint’s-day parade, a wedding celebration, or maybe an execution. He was good at picking the right moment to begin – juggling perhaps, or playing the flute. When a crowd started to gather, he would play the fool, picking something up with his toes and trying to put it on his head, or pulling impossibly long ribbons from his nose. Once everybody was properly paying attention to him, he would sing. Something simple at first – a rhyme or verse maybe, making fun of someone standing round. Nothing nasty, just enough to make everybody else laugh. Then, if he thought it was worth going on, he would sing a proper song. And his voice that had seemed so ordinary would suddenly soar like an angel. He had the face to go with it too. Especially if it was reasonably clean.

His family were satisfied with what he got. But he himself was not. He began to long for something better altogether. Going around London as he did, wandering further and further afield, he saw so many different places, different kinds of people, different ways of living. He dreamt of life far beyond the realm of all possibility for a boy such as him. But he couldn’t resist looking at it, at least. It was a long way to walk – the opposite end of town from his home – but that was for all the right reasons. It was because it was rich. It was where the nobility lived. The Thorney Island area.

Whenever he could, Rahere would go there, just to stand in the shadows and gaze at Westminster, pretending to himself that he, too, was part of the great palace. Sometimes, especially on feast days, you could see lords and ladies moving about, or even coming out, and then the crowds pressed as close as they dared to stare at their finery and rich attire. Rahere would watch the spectators too, and wonder how it felt to be so much admired.

But best of all he liked to stay out late at night, and cross over London Bridge to walk along the other side. Then in the distance he could see the Kings Hall of Westminster, light pouring from its great windows, reflecting on the river. Sometimes he’d even imagine he heard music coming from it. It seemed to him like heaven itself.

His ambition grew until, when he turned fourteen, he decided he would have to do something about it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He planned for weeks, perfected new tricks, and washed in the river every day to get his whole body as clean as he could.

He chose his time with care. Just after Easter. The king himself was at Westminster to enjoy a spectacle of some sort. Whatever it was, it had attracted the finest young men of his court. As they spilled out afterwards, Rahere was ready. Just by the bridge over the stream that he knew they would have to cross.

The light was beginning to go, so he was juggling with burning sticks. Attendants hurried up to clear him out of the way, but he dodged past, and turned it into a dance, tumbling and whirling, still holding the sticks, so the flames trailed after him. The pattern of light he made was dazzling. And at the same moment he started to sing. It was a song in French, calculated to catch the courtiers’ attention. Sweet and yet soulful. And it suited his voice. Now several had stopped to watch. It was time to draw them in – perhaps to borrow something. That worked well if it was the right thing. And the right person too. He already knew what object to choose. But which of the men should it be?

He looked around and his eyes met those of a nobleman not much older than him. Twenty or so. Rahere bowed low, arms out to either side, and in the same movement he pushed his flaming brands into the ground so they lit all around. As he straightened up, his gaze found that same man, and their eyes locked.

Calmly, as if it was an everyday request, Rahere made it known that he would like to borrow the young lord’s sword. ‘If you please,’ he added, in his best Norman French. He knew very few words, but his accent was excellent.